friday.
2017.
dead of june.
my grandparents' van.
we're at an intersection.
a homeless man in an american flag bandana holds a sign and walks the busy lanes.
"hungry, anything helps," the cardboard reads.
"looka there," my grandfather points. "he ain't gonna get no change like that."
the man pulls out a cigarette, sparks the end.
"and he's smokin'! i woulda given him a dollar!"
her indignation baffles me. as if a dollar would make any difference in this man's life.
"he should spend his money on food if he wants to get ahead."
i watch him behind the window, the wrinkles on his face, his bulbous nose.
i wonder if he would even want our money, this weathered old white man.
my hand stills in my purse and he ghosts past.
his smoke in his shadow.
||
there's a theme to life.
some overarching plotline.
at least that's the lie i tell myself.
there are flowers in my grandmother's garden,
feminine star bursts and seeds of gold.
i think of you often, probably more than i should.
i think of you and your whisky lites.
your fondness for strawberry cheesecake, your terrible jokes, your smile asleep.
you say "we" and "us" very casually and they're suddenly my favorite words.
"you'd love this restaurant, we should go"
"i think of all the mischief we could get up to together"
"i miss you"
"tell me when you get home safe."
"if you're good, then i'm good. and we're good. Good?"
i tell you about the homeless man and you're thoughtful.
"it bothers you, doesn't it?"
"yes."
"why?"
because it's never *just* a dollar.
because as much as i love my family my grandparents are homophobic as shit and they complain about me censoring their language.
"goodness is grey," you say, eating one of my fries. "nothing is binary."
"i want to fix everything."
"i know. you empathize with everyone. the outcasts. complete strangers. it's wild you can think about everyone else and still have room for us." you push the plate over to me. "and that's what i love about you."
it's saturday
2017.
a midnight June.
you were in my head this morning.
alongside everyone else.
i wake up covered in dust, and i'm glad i can make good of it.
somehow.
these are flowers from my grandmother's garden
