Son of Digression

Sometimes the past follows us, like bounced checks.

Associations

She lights another cigarette while the last one still smolders…she breathes in like an addict. Cloves. God.

I manage not to laugh.

She looks at me, her elbow resting on the checkerboard table. A Hasid shuckles to our left as a little girl sucks on the edge of his long black coat. At least I think it is a girl.

“Play with me….” Her voice is flat.

“Right here?”

She rolls her eyes. Not good. “Stop that….March”.

I watch the kids on the swing set…but she will not be avoided. “MARCH”.

“Wind…”

She nods. “Ossuary”.

“You’re joking…Sand” Watching the street. A cab has hit a cat. The yelling looks like a French film.

Her voice grows thoughtful. “Airplane Ticket”.

“Old news”. Harsher than I had intended.

That landed. Softness gone. “Illusions”

“Glamour”. Voice smooth. Control, control.

The man is done praying…he gathers his bundles, careful not to look at her as he walks past us, child in tow like an unanswered prayer.

She moves the pack across the fading squares of the table unconsciously. Check.

“Love”.

I look at her again. “Patience”.

They are trying to clear away the cat without letting the cabdriver leave. She watches them with a scientist’s eye. “Regret.”

I rise.

“I don’t want to play anymore.” I walk away into the cat’s wake.

She throws the pack of cloves at my back.

“I never did want to play…” she says. “You just told me I did.”

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