#worldcalculation

I walk the old neighborhood. Barefoot, awash in dog-stink and fern-stink, twenty-three. Summer is aghast. A bruise spreads from my elbow to my wrist. I was born here, and I played here. Played king of the forest, girls-only, broken sticks and fairy wands required. Different now. Prettier. Cleaner. Fewer folk. If a tree is old and beautiful, it is obliterated by the city. My parents ponder leaving. In my back pocket, a crumpled old picture of me, one year old, a baby in a sunbeam, a god-ray. Filthy diaper strapped to my ass. Crying my throat raw. Is that not a miracle? Hunger, pain, appetite, majesty, and filth, slush in a diaper. I hope my parents decide to stay. I was born here, and here my heart’s beat sparked, whizzed with love.