There was a time in my life when I thought I knew exactly what I wanted to do. When I stepped outside of my front door I understood everything. I could walk with purpose and stepped over cracks in the sidewalk subconsciously. All I remember from those days are sunny afternoons, phone calls from Ashton and Strawberry Street Market. Today I walked out of my second floor apartment door into the light purple and green stairwell taking me down to the crumbling sidewalk which paves the way to the E train. I sat down in a seat in a corner of the last car and kept my head down to avoid conversation. A gray eyed man of maybe 60 sat down across from me, putting the two grocery bags he was carrying in the seat next to him. One bag was filled with small tin cans which I suspect were tuna and another bag with half a dozen loaves of bread. I looked up and stared into his face and it was cracked like the face of someone who has seen more fucked up shit than I could ever imagine. I pulled out the pack of citrus flavored gum I had picked up at the C-Store at Emerson College the day before. I gave myself a piece, locked eyes with the guy and offered him one. He said to me “Thank you, but I don’t like oranges”.
(this post was written in november)
