POETRY/FICTION | Kathryn Llewellyn Philadelphia, 2012

POETRY

Philadelphia, 2012

By Kathryn Llewellyn

The night before my college graduation, I’m in the clearance rack flipping through limp dresses. Raindrops dot plexiglass. I didn’t bring an umbrella, so I leave emptyhanded and spend the money instead on a cab back to campus. Wet vinyl, stale airfreshener and filmi music waft back, ghazal and synthesizer, a rain of its own. How good it must be, the driver says, nearing the gates, having your whole life in front of you. He says he was a heart surgeon back in Pakistan. We reach the curb. My office job starts in a week. Do what’s in your heart, he says. I give him a crumpled bill and weigh what comes next against how much I want.