I am here, now
I dreamed myself into your city.
I woke up in the house you own,
woke up in your bed covered in the quilts my mother gave me,
dappled by sunlight filtering through the oaks outside your window.
I felt your reality with my bare soles;
I stood in your kitchen and the tiles were cool against my feet,
I walked in your backyard and each blade of St. Augustine grass
tickled the gaps between my toes while damp dirt hugged my heels.
Do you remember the bicycle we bought, before we diverged,
when this city was our future and not merely yours?
Now it lives in my over-priced apartment,
but it was there in your garage and so we rode it.
The summer air was thick and hot, and how I sweated —
I never sweat in San Francisco, I’m always cold in San Francisco,
I have forgotten what it means to thrive in Texas heat.
When we arrived at your favorite coffeeshop
(is it new? I’ve never been there before)
your friends were there. I didn’t know their faces.
They didn’t recognize me. But how could they?
I have my own friends now, friends who have never known you,
and they are good, good people and they love me.
I am not sorry that I left you behind in order to meet them.
My parents called you. They were driving through my sister’s city
on the way to visit my grandma. It’s not far from you.
They asked you if you wanted to drive down and meet them for dinner.
I saw the look on your face; you were about to say no,
you had plans that night.
I nearly choked on jealousy as I grabbed the phone from you:
yes I’d love to see you, I’ll be there soon.
I took your keys and drove the car that would have been mine
if I had stayed
and when I got to the restaurant I hugged my mother so hard
we both cried and I told my father I missed you so much
and he laughed and said it’s only been two weeks
because he didn’t know it was me, not you —
you, the me who never left;
you, the me who has never lived timezones and plane rides and money away;
you, the me who could have been if I had stayed;
you, who dreams of my reality and wonders what if I had gone
and nearly cries with envy for the life that I have built?
If there are a million mes, each dreaming
of a billion other mes who might have been,
then I hope at least one of us is content with her choices
and finds joy in the places where she walks.
And if it’s not too much to ask, I hope that she is this me.
