Untitled, 2004As I gaze through the glass at my keys in the ignition, I think of my glee at finding, the other morning, slick sheets of ice on my steps, an impasse, between me and the outside world, an adult's snow day, with its enforced peacefulness. And I think of my disappointment when the landlords, thinking themselves kind, salted the steps, and broke the barrier. I think also of how often I get to the bottom of those steps, only to turn, to retrieve my glasses. I remember leaving my cell phone in Athens. I think of chipped coffee cups that slipped from my grasp. I savor the wait for the locksmith, a rare piece of peace, a sublime solitude. But it's cold, and I have forgotten my mittens. –A.M. Otwell, 2004 |