awp

We would have missed a long walk that turned into a hike, an exercise in mud. The boy without his wheels flew and then fell, then flew again. Down by the bridge, over by the river. We ended up at the farmer’s market, buying milk and a bag of fresh scallops. We stood on the bridge and yelled down at the train. Drank grape apple cider on a bench, watching tennis. Waking early, sleeping late. The energy of Saturday smoked into cold. Baking Sunday: a peek-a-boo pastry, French butter with wild berry jam. We cooked the scallops with citrus and pistachio and chives. My husband wrote comic strips. My pen spotted chapters. The child connected puzzle pieces like railroad cars. AWP. I used to walk around with my name on a string. I used to believe I would be only one thing. Life would follow a line someone set for me. But everything I have to prove I have proved. Every day I prove it: in the classroom, on the train, in the agent call, in the friend letter, in the story, in the turn, at the store, on the path, over dinner, in my body, in your arms. Every day I draw the line. I set it high. And I follow it.