Creative Writing
I remember spring in the city. The neighboring co-op planting red yellow tulips in the tree box on the sidewalk for dogs to piss all over. Waking up, gobs of goop floating around my eyes like algae in a pond. This is all that spring is.
You remember smoking near riverside park when Ms. Walker walked by. Walker walked. I laugh.
Jade remembers that night in Brooklyn, but not enough.
I remember leaving New York for the summer. Sweaty shoving clothes into duffel bags in preparation for my plunge into two month contactless hibernation. Melancholy in escaping the crippling heat radiating off pavement and wafting waves of broiling garbage. Sentimental of the perpetual cradle rock of the A train.
Grandma remembers her house in Linwood. Hanging baskets of dangling fern cast shadows over hibiscus and rose in full bloom. Deep green ivy wrestles a small terracotta pot of unripe tomatoes next to blue hydrangeas amidst brush and vine. The ivy snakes up the sides of the house against red brick and white panels. Black eyed susan’s stretch their petals towards the sky.
I remember Icarus.
Zach remembers drinking cold beer and jazz and Casablanca. Zach: Sarcastic and burning tracing circles on the wall.
Troy remembers the graveyard shift. Strolling pedestrians sprinkled sparsely on pavement. Fog’s tendrils choking top stories. Animal eyes reflecting silent solitude not suited for humans. Perpetual monotony.