Do the Cherry Trees Know the World is Going to End?
I live at rock bottom in the Heights. It’s a beautiful mid-April Saturday morning, sitting outside tucked away in my little marble corner amidst the cherry blossoms. I chose the only spot splashed with sunlight not twenty minutes ago, and already it’s been covered up by encroaching clouds. I’ve been told a thunderstorm is coming later in the afternoon. I’m not concerned; the trees don’t seem to be either, and the weatherman too is back-tracking on his predictions.
The only person I know is going out for coffee with someone else, so I’m here alone. I’d hoped to get some food for myself at a nice sit-down café today, but they’re going to the only place I’d had in mind. She is more popular than me, of course, by which I mean she knows people. I am content to write.
I hear a hurdy-gurdy and the wind hits me in the face.
A family of fat giants in fancy suits appears and gawks at me and disappears again in front of my eyes. A squirrel sprints in between us in a panic; perhaps they were staring at that. Looking over, thinking I was still the sole person left today from yesterday’s crowd of hundreds of sweaty moving pieces in a Sims game, I see somebody else on the far side of this massive silver tower foundation I’ve squatted on. I look down. My body is covered in moss.
Dark grey bags dash the belows of my eyes. Anyone but me could tell you where they’re from. Yesterday I ate a single meal with a few shots of espresso in the evening. Last night I slept for not more than a few hours, albeit like a baby with the sounds of desperate sobbings surrounding me. Today I wear a sweater borrowed, returned and stolen. I can’t figure out for the life of me where in Central Park my entire calf muscle detached from the bone. It isn’t her or anybody but my own fault. A lot of unfortunate things there and here have happened recently. A person died a thousand feet away from where I am now two weeks ago. No one really remembers that anymore. Too many tragedies happen every day no matter where one goes. That was always going to be the case when we collectively reached this point, though, wasn’t it?
It’s deceivingly easy to spend all day in bed when you’re married and made your money already. But I’m young, and my money is gone, and it’s time to go to sea. The Bay of Biscay? Not that I’d do any better there; more than likely worse. But when your body is covered in moss, you have to go somewhere. And Venus is passing in front of the Sun in the middle of the day.