it is 1992 and I wake up
to a packed house because I
will be at the airport by 9am,
to catch the 10:15 flight to L.A.
to live in a house I�ve never even seen before.

Cambridge is cold in January and I am
a puff of down feathers carefully
wrapped and zipped by my parents.

Dad gets an everyday newspaper, because he has to know
what�s happening in the world, and I feel
like asking him if he could buy me a slice of this city to take
with me although right then I feel like choking on my tongue so I don�t
ask even as we trudge away through the snow, brown from exhaust.

walking is hard and I want to be
held and I want to be carried up
the steps to our apartment, which is
small but looks big now that
everything is on a truck and if
I could I�d play in the packing bubbles,
jumping on them and feeling
tiny pockets of air explode into the
soles of my feet.

the clouds are puffy and swollen from raining
through the oval window with a print of
my nose stuck on the plastic, looking
and watching as my life stays behind
me at 35,00 miles an hour but
I don�t cry because I can�t even
as I feel a lightning strike go off in my left ventrical,
and the answering call of thunder.

an hour�s drive
later the carpet is white, and
maybe it�s soft but I wouldn�t
know because I�ve never had
carpet, only hardwood floors and it�s
a real house, not an apartment, even though it
only has one story.