AWP Chicago 2009 #4: taxi ride at night
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Before the line went dead this morning, our conversation through the interference of a bad connection, my friend's voice cut up, whole chunks of it taken out, both of us talking louder, more slowly. He stands in the bathroom with his back to the door, his head cocked to the ceiling where my voice hits the signal every few seconds, syllables at a time. We talk through the missing parts. We know one another this well.
Like the big blue chair view of the nursing home across the street. The little ramps from either side kept clear of snow, the visitors parking, walking in and out of the automatic doors, the staff in white coats smoking cigarettes by the back dumpster. I know without looking. Though this morning the slide of snow on the roof steams in the melt, and the candy rim of the fairytale mansion's turret looks coppery and pink. The sun is coming up. The wind is waving around in only the tips of the trees. The nursing home brick is so red I could eat it. So red it hurts.
I am still talking about Maribel.
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