Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Memory, June 2008 - Poetry Walk Across the Brooklyn Bridge

Just now, I am stuck by a memory so clear and yet just at the tip of remembrance, like some dream or another. I am in a car, and it's dark, and I am on my way home. In a car, which is so fancy. Was I being dropped off at Grand Central? Most likely.

It must have been after the Poetry Walk Across the Brooklyn Bridge, after I'd shaken Bill Murray's hand (he was so tall and seemed so genuinely friendly; he stayed right to the end after everyone left, even us staff working the event), after we'd dropped someone else off on what must have been the Upper East Side though it doesn't make much sense on the map. It had been a beautiful day. I can't remember what I wore. Comfortable shoes, I imagine.

I can't put words to what I was feeling in that dark car, talking to strangers. Perhaps not even wearing a seat belt as we zipped from intersection to intersection.  Perhaps I felt the same thing I am always feeling, being driven around at night in the summer: something crisp and just on the precipice. Something just on the edge and moist.

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