Without Rhyme or Reason

For my Grandma Mary; someone I have never met but heard so much about.

I am three-years-old and I’m collecting seashells. My mother takes a picture of me-- it’s now in a frame displayed in our living room-- my brows are furrowed in deep concentration. A strap from my favorite overalls hangs loosely off my shoulder but I don’t seem to notice because I’m too preoccupied with picking through a mound of flat rocks and soft pink shells.

What my life was really like living in the city as a tired and broke graduate student.

Fill a cup with water and ice / But say it’s a vodka soda / Hold it until they stop asking.

It was hard to leave the first time, but I knew my bed would forever be made except when I took it with me, to the room upstairs.

When I can’t sleep, I walk through the crowded city in my mind-- desperate to separate my tangled thoughts from the heavy throngs of emotions littered on the sidewalk.

and we’ve only just said hello. but here I am; already picturing goodbye

The worst place I ever called home was on 122nd street

your arms have held me between the streets of cities no others knew how.