By Lauren Lubrino
Suspension bridges. Cameras installed on both ends. “They are watching us.” The iron railing was cold. His hands turned blue with web of purple veins. There is a netting below the bridge to catch those who decide to jump.
The frozen scent of ice. In the summer, you could go rafting. But the rocks at the bottom of the might kill you. The sun was thrown away under the gray and dark clouds, recycled with the all the other suns in the waste-bins of days-gone-by.
He didn’t call to say happy birthday but he remembered. You can’t run away from your problems. The steam clouded his mouth as he drained pasta. “No matter where you go or what you do your always going to have the same problems.”
Upstate NY is an introduction to a new kind of darkness. In the far away distance, the lights of New York City lingered like a ghost. Never going back there. Break-ins every day. Death lingered on every street corner. Everyday wondering if, “today would be the day that you would get shot in the head”. The perpetrator lurked in every memory, every shiny piece of glass and mirror. No 911 operator. The flashlight illuminated pieces of dust and the car in the driveway.
But somewhere, the sun was rising. Darkness was a map. The longitude and latitude that calculates how far away you are from home. I thought about the bridge. I no longer thought about the netting. I accepted the darkness as a place.
The black tea kettle was left on. The whistle sounded like someone was screaming.