julia ruth smith

First We Take Manhattan

Lena becomes more beautiful each time they put needles in her eyes. The doctors tell her to live it up. From a sailboat, smudged ruby lipstick, flaming hair, palms to the wind, she waves in slightly the wrong direction.

I could envy her new starts and leaving, but the facts are brutal. I wish myself brighter. She slams to a stop; views her son in fuzzy fractions. One day he will not be there at all.

Watching the ocean she asks me if it’s flat; she says she sees the New York skyline. I’d like to wrap the horizon around us and tell her we’ll both get there eventually.

We walk miles together; she listens intensely, holds my hand. We reach a small wood where she stumbles on dappled light. My tears come then and I let them. If she cried too it might wash away her fear; it could lessen mine.