Strangers with a couple memories_Goodie Basket_A World of Difference_Since We Last Spoke
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Strangers with a couple memories
As much a stranger as any one person on the subway. Still the memories radiate the familiarity of her eyes. Just like that I felt myself within the comfort of those eyes. Just like that my body forgets how to behave or rather if it should behave. It’s been years now. Even so, the rip in my memories remains unfulfilled. She looks away as if all those years had never occurred. She finds a seat by the window. Puts headphones in her ears and looks away. I walk down the aisle and weakly whisper a ‘hey’ when I pass by her row. She ignores my greeting just like all the vulnerability in my texts. I...
Goodie Basket
I wanted to drop the basket of goodies into a trash bin. But that might be noticeable. Especially at a hospital, which would seem to make the gesture all the more heinous, when such a kind gift could bring a much-needed smile to any number of people here. I decided to hold onto it, even though it felt heavier as the moments passed. I did, however, make a thin slice of an opening which allowed me to extract and indulge in some sweet treats. And why not? I was hungry and needed something to do. After being involuntarily volunteered to deliver it as one of the last few people present, there wasn’...
A World of Difference
Content warning: Themes of racismThe first time I went to Kyle Rockefeller's house, I spent the majority of my visit in the bathroom, marveling at his toilet water.He showed me around the place with the authority of a junior architect, gesturing to the porcelain tiling of the outdoor kitchen and reflecting on the rooftop spire that looked like an upside-down waffle cone. We moved leisurely. Save for Benson, the Rockefeller's mustachioed butler/chauffeur who'd driven us there after school let out, the house was empty. Always Kyle called it his "house." He was careful not to use the word "mansio...
Since We Last Spoke
My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I rubbed at them and looked again. Squinting the figure into focus. That is him. His hair is now white as a cloud and his once youthful face is weathered, but it’s him. As he made his way around the pond approaching me, I could see him searching his mind for the memory of my face. He didn’t have to search long.“Roger? Roger Cook, is that you?!” he exclaimed. “It sure is,” I answered. I stood up from the park bench to shake his hand. “Charles Clark, it’s good to see you.”“Wow, you too. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. You don’t look a day over s...