I wish to speak to her but words don’t reach her. Harsh life lessons never teach her. Not sure if she’d be helped by a therapist or a preacher. Not even parental cries could have beseeched her. So I just sit here on our cold high school bleacher overlooking our old athletic field and feel an enormous clump of guilt. My whole life I tried to build internal strength and structure, but she let outside forces take over and corrupt her. Why didn’t I stop her? Where were my best intentions? School of hard knocks, now in detention. I’m tired of this world and all of its pretension. Put in twenty years and still no pension. No payout. What’s this all about? My fertile years are in a drought, sitting here still trying to figure it out.
Why didn’t I ever speak up or mention? And what about the basic talks about drug prevention? Was that my sole intention now to patch up past missteps? Finally awoken, for so long I slept. She lived in a place where she did not want to be found. Occasionally she would resurface from the dreadful underground. She shipped off long ago, never found the other side of the shore as I watched her slowly drown. Bound ’til the bitter end. My dear, long lost friend. I had to learn how to access deep recesses, safeguard and bless, recollect imprints of departed hearts. She was a fool for love, although street smart.
Fresh start. I knew there was a task for me to do. We walked together through the park down to the avenue. It was the same girl, the same row houses I once knew, retained that warm glow that evening hue from the sunset. How could I ever forget. Returned but I’ve seen it looking better. Long gone the Ñetas and the Kings, passing through were streams of teens popping wheelies on bespoke spokes roaming, for all I know they could have been MS13. No romanticized version of my beloved Queens. This place was never gleaming clean. Lookouts at spots, abandoned lots and trash strewn in between, same antics along these antiquated elevated tracks sparks my memories, the thumping sound of rails clack clack harkened me back, same yellow bricked building. Same corner store, the crude graffiti slap tags near the archway by the entry door. The only place we could afford. Unfurnished, given a few things to get by, by our Yugoslavian landlord. Oh my word. It was a mix of bittersweet and somber mood. Recalling when my mom would shop for groceries across the street at that diminutive store for food, somehow what she made always tasted so good, home cooked perfection. I glanced around one last time to say a last goodbye & crossed the busy intersection. That place from long ago harsh lessons I still keep, the price of coming up while down was steep. I asked if Jen wanted something to eat, favorite street grub, didn’t want to come off as a suburban snob. She said she was momentarily broke, all she wanted was a can of coke. She picked up a half cigarette butt from the ground to smoke, rumbling for a light in her bag, sad prototype of a disheveled urban hag, then stumbled muttering saying something, grumbled, couldn’t hold on, tripped, drenched herself as she still tried to sip that carbonated syrup. There goes her can of coke. The three kids on their bikes nearby laughed out loud in her direction and shouted out a tasteless joke. She made an attempt at a quick come back but barely made sense when she spoke. Man now Jen is like one of them old man drunks. At least she still held on to her spunk. Shuffling back up the hill, I said don’t mind those little punks, I’ll get you another can of coke to spill. We walked back up to the park before it got too dark. A stroll through the old hood, memories of childhood, oak-lined streets, these inner city woods, a preserved moment that stood for what I tried so hard to rate, where I had to search hard for love and overcome hate, to distance myself from and separate, as bad or good, in reality it was something else entirely that was important, yet at times in my life so thoroughly misunderstood.