Thoughts at the End of February Melissa Hamilton
A piece of crumbled paper thrown from the passenger side of an oncoming car has more value than me. On the drive home, silence stretches itself out like a lazy cat on a warm radiator. You are the clinking coins in my pocket; the tea I bring up to my lips; the eyes that face forward even at red lights. Eventually, I speak of escape – my voice, timid and low, crawling over Kerouac lyrics set to country melodies. You are listening, as always: Eyes averted, yet mind open. I babble indiscreetly, foolishly rambling through thoughts of a locale where fatigue is cured. This place does not exist though. You cannot forget the things you once loved. There is enough sorrow in me to fill all these winter potholes. As the chipped away asphalt rises to meet my mouth, sweetness settles in, for just a moment, in the form of a great oak tree and then leaves. Soon, is the click of the seatbelt undone – your hands fidgeting with bags (have I trapped you in here?). I reach out to touch your fingers, only to find lukewarm memories, untouched and unfulfilled. But you, you are the parts I want to remember. A body retreating, a black pea coat with toggles a pair of casual grey slacks. You: simple and complex. Wind full of ashes, powder cinders of desire, soot in my mouth. You: A tree of Christmas lights that flames all year long. Small parts die, yet the rest, beautiful and daunting, remain. 38
