Fresh Start

At twelve we moved from the Pacific to the Atlantic ocean.

Warm suburbia was traded in

for crisp city life.

We were living in a temporary apartment

that had dark stairwells,

smelled of curry spices, 

and felt like homicide.

In that parking lot my mother gasped

at a used condom, 

just lying there full of questions.

Yet…this move was a fresh start.

Everyday,

there was Dad…

Walking home from work,

Back erect and eyes shining,

Full of possibility.

It was still daylight when he arrived.

We ate dinner together, 

We played Clue and even laughed.

Then there was the first snow. 

My father took us outside and taught us how to make a snowball.

How to pack it hard and shape it smooth.

We took taxis and subways.

We ate crab cakes and fried oysters.

We watched the Berlin Wall fall on television.

Our world was changing and we were changing with it...

Today…

driving through Arlington I’m forty…

everything is different.

The park where my Dad taught me how to make my first snowball…

is gone.

The temporary apartment building with the dark stairwells and a fresh start…

The building where my father died suddenly at thirty-six…

is no longer visible.

But I can still see the street where he walked home each night, 

his back erect, eyes shining, 

ready for what lies ahead.

Then I remember that fresh starts 

begin every day.

Yet this small glint…

This beginning of a fresh start…

That never really started…

has made all the difference.

Celeste- February 2024