August 10th, 2004
109213666855642125
FSOL – Domain
I remember the breeze, and feeling it ruffle the cool, light nylon of my windbreaker; the ground still wet from an autumn rain, and the maple leaves pressed like decals orange and gold into the sidewalks and streets.
A thought leads to ten others, and my memories branch off like cracks in a frozen lake, running in a hundred directions from one central point and thinning in intensity as my mind connects casual bricks farther and farther away from that initial yawn.
The huge, rubber teeth in Bus 501′s tires; how Bus 1 was old and the floors were green– the late sixties green with striated tan dots that made me think of wet filth and stray hairs caught around screw heads.
Pittsburgh in snow, and sliding down Beeler Street over slushy sidewalks in a mangled terrain of concrete blocks all off kilter from old tree roots.
Listening to the rain outside of my rotting apartment on Grady buried beneath one of Brandon’s foam blankets; a pair of sneakers forever tied around a branch on a half-dead sumac; losing my Emmit Smith football under a passing Volvo because Brandon didn’t hustle on bad ankles, and seeing it emerge miraculously from the deafening thud unscathed.
Going to Laurel Caverns south of Pittsburgh in November, constantly stooping my head and rebreathing dank, subterreanan air again eight years later, like it was a mistake, or a sequel, something I was doing against better judgement.
Sitting in the reversed back seat of that timeless, dark grey ’88 Pontiac 6000 wagon from Renn Kirby, and holding Lindsey Robinson’s cold, clammy hand in mine, while behind us younger siblings fought, and our mothers talked about homeroom teachers.
The air was so wide and fresh and cool it could make you fly.
It crushes me how clean and light I felt.
Then again, he has a wife and infant son, I’ve got a spider plant [named 