Nestled in between brick and concrete,
the city block is breathing
heavy as people and cars circulate through its veins and capillaries.
This first day of spring is a cold one.
There are no flowers to greet us,
no green sprouting yet.
Just gray sidewalks filled with the ice of another New England weather mood swing.
This day has us wanting; the bitter desperation in longing for a warm embrace,
or any hope it might elicit.
I hear voices howling in between the sidewalk cracks and salty sand:
"When I found out I had cancer, I didn't realize that it would be extremely isolating. I am so grateful now for the support of my friends and family"
"Can you spare any change, Miss? I want to buy a tent."
"Why haven't I called you? I wish it could be that easy. Like how I fantasize about showing up at your door with flowers,
smiling spring onto your lips"
"Why is everything in this town so expensive?"
"It's almost funny ... I am worried about holding onto so many things,
when all I ever really wanted was to let go?"
"Why am I scared of how dirty my house is
when I came from
and will go back to
As I try weaving past them, I see a man crossing the road
stop and pretend to get on an imaginary bicycle. His motion is perfect,
he mounts the invisible bike seat, I can almost see him ride thin air
down the street, until an impatient car growls at him. He pushes down on
the pedal one last time and arrives effortlessly back onto the sidewalk.
It is here I imagined myself
and all these voices as children.
I pondered what these children had dreamed of their lives,
who they had wanted to become
and how we actually got here.
Maybe living our lives is like this man on this day trying to ride that imaginary bicycle. We can't see it, and we don't really know what direction it will take us, but we have to keep going and have faith that spring will come and we will eventually make it back onto the sidewalk.