The Journey's End

Years ago we traveled together over this bridge.

Every weekday we clamored in our bus seats ,

sticking our hands out square windows.

Today the metal is frosted with salt and snow.

If I look to the right, I can barely see the

river rushing by in between the metal grills.

If I look to the left, I can see my existence, brief and distorted on

the reflective glass of skyscrapers.

That’s just what life looks like when you’re traveling at 60 miles per hour.

By now, you are walking. You don’t commute on the bus anymore.

If you walk by the river,

you would see the water barely moving. The daylight sparkles

off the edges made by ripples. Your reflection follows you

in the steel-blue storefronts and the wind

doesn’t feel like it’s trying to tear out your hair.

To you, time is abundant, wrapped up cornucopias

you can pick off of trees.

And even though you’re older than me, it seems

as though I left you behind.

If you walk far enough, you might see

the snowchairs that our siblings make.

The adults all say that we’re far too old for that kind of childish activity.

But you’ll smile and you’ll remember

the snowchairs we built; the thrones we sat on.

It’s too bad they disintegrated under the

taunt clothesline before the week departed.

If you wait a little longer for the snow to melt this year,

I’ll be able to make it down Lakeshore Drive.

Tomorrow I’ll knock on your door.

We’ll go back to the small Greek restaurant and order

little cakes and pastries for lunch.

You’ll order tiramisu, your daily dose of caffeine.

We’ll make small talk and

excuses for being separated for so long.

After we finish with all the niceties, we'll depart from each other

once more.

This time, I’ll stay to guard our hometown and childhood.

And you’ll go off to find yourself in

the world.