I remember the smell of suntan lotion; the clattering of dishes emanating from neighbors’ open windows in the evening after a long day in the sun and the sand and the ocean.
I remember the crunch and flavor of a vanilla soft ice cream cone dipped in melted chocolate.
I remember watching the cars on Labor Day, lined up bumper-to-bumper on the only road, crawling their way off the island.
I remember the sound of the soles of my shoes echoing in the silence of the empty street in the fall after the tourists returned to their homes in the city.
I remember melancholy.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Melancholy
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The sadness of a child forgotten by her mother
A page torn from a notebook bouncing in the wind across the road
Hundreds of geese flying in formation high in the sky toward their winter homes
Homeless persons sitting on the sidewalk next to the busiest subway station in the most powerful city in the history of the world
When you hear a fire engine roaring down a street, think of the terror of the person who dialed 911
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