September first, it is midnight. The year is flying by. I look in the mirror and see the heavy line creeping along the corners of my blue eyes. My hair is white, bleached with age and the sun like a fine piece of driftwood. My knees remind me that I use to be young and nimble, and acrobatic as a monkey in a tree. I still have most of my teeth unlike my deceased parents who have faded into the fogy memories of my passing years. I see their eternal, paternal smiles… I was lucky. I was loved by them. I remember how I use to curl up on the backseat floor of the car and pretend to sleep so that Dad would pick me up, carry me into my home, and Mom would tuck me underneath the covers. I miss them. Terribly, sometimes.
I have always loved the water… a puddle, a pond , a stream, and especially the flooded street of Powers ave. ware I grew up in the burbs of Motown… We lived at the bottom of a little hill, with a drain by the curb in front of my house, (ware my neighbor would tosss their bagged kittens) , would plug and overflow and join a swelling, encroaching polluted creek at the end of the block, filling the steaming pavement with the cool rain from a dark,flashing, pounding, humid thunderstorm. These memories… They are precious. They sustain me, come to my rescue in the dark hours; everything else, materially, I own, is simply fools gold.