holding still
I write to identify the feeling of sitting on one’s fire escape, just before the clapping begins. Having a mandatory moment of stillness…
I write to identify the feeling of sitting on one’s fire escape, just before the clapping begins. Having a mandatory moment of stillness implemented and glass of cold white wine placed into your hand by the love of your life, who now wedges themself into the window and then urges you to do the same. You are now both locked into the window frame, seated on the pink blanket and immovable, glasses of wine in hand. You are forced to stay still and look. You take your third sip and the feelings rise behind your eyes. You remember sitting here, by yourself, almost twelve years ago. There were different colored leaves in a different season, and so much electric excitement buzzing around the idea of a place you knew almost nothing about. Now, you know more, you’ve lived a whole life, lost things and found things you never knew were lost, and then produced two entirely new people who now inhabit the room that you both used to sleep in. Where does the possibility live now?
The street is quiet, but ready. Peripherally, neighbors gather and now there’s the jingle of Fern’s tambourine and the screen sliding up and open to reveal Daniel-from-downstairs who comes up to “prank his mom.”
This street is a microcosm, this street is an aquarium, this street is a gallery, this street is a symphony, this street is __________.
You clap loud and hard. You jingle the bells. You beat the drum. You drink the wine. You made the lasagna. You holler loud at the end, signaling that we’ll do it all again tomorrow.