The Tides of Time

1

Streetlights flash in and out of our car as we drag through Broad Street. The moon shines down, hanging efflorescent in the corner of my window. In the glass I see my reflection, glossy and clear. I can discern myself now in a way that I never could before. My jaw line streams jagged along my face, olive pools rest on my cheekbones like a child who cannot lift itself from sleep. This town is the artist who molded me into the person I am today.2

I see my church and the old youth group building. I remember a time when I had faith that ruled every decision I made. The youth building, once so full of life now sat barren and desolate with a for sale sign hanging like some ominous shadow of my past. The friends I made in that building all feel like strangers, including God. I miss clinging to the pews like a drowning damsel and listening to the pastor who appeared unfaltering. The only truth I have now is how far my ambition will propel me to achieve my goals and make my dreams come true, because I alone am the only one who can do that. 3

We pass Broad Street School, the first school I went to when I moved from Bridgeport. I recall a change in myself the moment I stepped into that building which once seemed so massive but is now quite small and unimpressive. It was then I developed a sense of social consciousness and no longer drifted into the sidelines of conversations. In that small fifth grade classroom I made friends for the first time.4

Time moves slowly and I forget what destination I had in this car. I glance at my big sister Alicia behind the wheel. Her dark exotic curls heaving around the length of her body. Her quietly destructive eyes the color of moss and springtime dig into the understanding dashboard. I wonder pensively to myself if I will always view her as a caretaker and confidant, if I will always look to her for guidance and search her out when it is so dark that she is the only one I see, I hope so. I remember when I was twelve and she got her license, my other sister Jessica and I envied her but were also delirious with excitement. Neither my mother or father drove and it made us sick with a sense of power that we now had someone on our side to take us where we needed to go. A license was the only way out and to us that Mitsubishi was God.5

I suddenly realize we are heading home, a strange word to use since I never really felt at home anywhere. I always told myself that where ever my feet fall is home, I am my own sanctuary. We slide by the corner bar where my mother spent many empty nights. I can recall opening the large wooden door that used to feel much heavier and attempting to peel her off the stool, never successfully. This taught me to measure success in effort. 6

We go on to pass the entrance to the Delaware River. I remember when the gate was locked I’d slip through the chain and sneak my way onto the shore. I’ve spent countless days and nights at that river, being close to the water soothed me. The calming tides that licked the shore pulled so much poetry from me I thought I might never write again. It was there I became friends with Robert Frost, Earnest Hemingway and Lewis Carroll. There was something deeply moving in the surroundings, watching the waves eat the trash and debris. It was as if nature was making a tremendous effort to pull away from the deadly clutches of the vicious human kind. That river knows me better then any person alive. 7

In the middle of my smoky recollections we reached my house. As I stepped on to the cold asphalt I was hit with a ton of memories all at once. The old swing that sways quietly in the autumn wind is home to the biggest chunk of my past. My mother bought this swing when she separated from my father and moved into our new house. It was the only thing in our front yard and she was very proud of it. It still sits underneath the big tree that never stops coughing out leaves no matter what time of year it is. The swing stays out all four seasons and has eavesdropped on countless conversations. A number of times I have fallen asleep in the sun on this swing with my journal spread across my chest like a butterfly. I remember planning my future with my ex girlfriend, being so confident about something so uncertain showed my immaturity. I remember trying my first and last cigarette, and countless nights playing with the stars. I’d spread my toes through the dirt and grass and wonder if the ground felt the same in California. I remember swinging my little sister and my little cousins up and down until they got to dizzy to walk. I can hear my boyfriend whispering promises in my ear like an unfinished puzzle. I slowly walk over and crawl across the cousins faded from rain and spread my arms out like a hawk that cannot wait to fly away.8