I’m standing alone on the Warren Avenue bridge. The sky is indigo and darkling. The car lights blur with sound, speed and shadow. The day was warm, that clean warmth of early autumn, but now, with nightfall, the wind has risen off the water, bringing me the salt of the Puget Sound and the hint of Cascadian snow.
Tonight I want to be mountain climbing. I want to be romancing a lover with deep brown eyes and a voice like a hot cup of chantico. I want to be some where, any where but here.
Not sure what it is. Not sure what’s wrong. Just feeling like my skin is too tight, like a child forced to wear last winter’s jacket. Want to lift myself up on the railing, a hundred plus feet above the black water. Want to walk the rail, want to jump and neither fall nor fly but just stand, held perfectly by the invisible hand of God. Touching nothing and no one. No noise. No color in the night. I become air. I become breath. I breathe me in. Like cedar and cinnamon. Like the scent of nutmeg and cloves or subtle rose petal candles.
I am transported and free.
E.J.
