scrambled · egg

Another boat ride. What
would be more appropriate?
What would be more
appropriate? I choose to ride
on the other boat, the nicer,
more yacht-like of the two.
Passing the sailboat
that sheltered me every weekend
of my childhood. The one
whose cabin cabinet hung
the sign ‘Don’t worry,
Be happy’. I choose to ride
on the boat of the man I didn’t know
to your memorial service
at Three Rooker Island.
Did I know it was once
connected to Anclote?
Of course I did. You told me
every weekend of my childhood.
You told me we’d have
a slumber party. You told me
you’d quit smoking. You
told me you’d go to the doctor.
I didn’t know you. I was 10
and you had many secrets.
And I picked the nicer boat
cause it was just another boat ride.
I don’t know how to sew or cook
or curl my hair or even sail --
and when I scattered the
rose petals over your ashes
and watched the salt water
carry them away,
I tried to make myself cry
because that’s what everyone else was doing.

Past the rainbow casting crystals suspended in my window, there is the sky. Completely clear, the pure blue canvas is stretched across the dome, lighter at the horizon. From my station on the sixth floor, the brick wall of my dormitory drips down to the sidewalk and is echoed across the way on the expansive walls of the buildings that house the classes. Students flow out the side door. Not like a river, but more like an almost sealed faucet; an occasional stream, and peace in between. Their neutral colored backpacks blend into their hair, which hide their cell phones. Two of them without phones stand out: a boy and girl walking with each other. The boy holding far more books than a regular schedule requires, the girl holding none. Leaving design class, though he desires to be a fire fighter. The surrounding trees arched over their path. The colors of the leaves changing from green to yellow to orange to brown and then they float to the ground; crackling under her booted feet, invisibly highlighting the walk. A year later, when she would sit on her bed peering out her window, hugging her journal like an old lint-shedding sweatshirt, she would hear those crackling leaves and see his blue eyes light up when they stepped into the sun and out of the shelter of the trees.

The hand with the outstretched index finger, forever sealed in flaking fresco, hundreds
of feet above the tourists’ hearts in that side chapel of the Vatican City, is the same hand

accompanying the 17-foot tall boy, holding the stone destined to sink into the giants’ forehead,
forever freeing the Israelites from captivity. It is the same paternal hand whose strong fingers

gently pulled the sandspurs out of my fragile puerile feet, and it is the same hand
whose veins protruded, providing a game for my curious inventive fingers and mind.

Wondering why they wouldn’t stay down when I pushed them. Why mine, in comparison,
were so small, hiding below the surface, forbidding me to be adventurous, worldly, and mature.

Shaping who I was, who I have become – now -- my hands are grown and scarred, but clean
and healthy, cherishing the feel of cool metal cookie sheets, and rough sidewalks that scrape

my knuckles during fervent falls off my bicycle. Cherishing the feel of your hand,
twice the size of my own and patient, loving. The home of calloused fingertips, inspiring

goose bumps into existence, and ink stains sleeping in the cracks. The same hand grazes
my wrist, cradles my neck, and brushes the hair off my forehead. My dusty gold locks woven

between your fingers. Your third finger traces the curve of my bare shoulder and I set my temple against yours. Here I rest, in Michelangelo’s Italian heaven. No longer grasping desperately

for faith’s hand, but knowing I have been blessed with your hands
holding me like I am the most precious treasure in the world.

I enjoy the goose bumps of early November
through the silver, reflecting, echoing subway halls.
Smell the coffee brewing before breakfast
after staying out all night. Indulge,
breathing in the day’s awakening; unveiling
new views, while I watch inside our booth.
I hear the clinking of forks and spoons, and study
the spotted glasses; how they warp his sky-colored eyes
during long sips, avoiding the straw.
Vanish to earlier that night -- the soft, savory night
with streets and stars and ice cream cones.
Burning cold, dagger pops
cause a shiver, exhale, and reason to touch,
between our reflecting, echoing heart beats.