Wake Up

she makes paths in her room; to the bed from the door, to the window from the bed, to the closet from the window.  In between are piles of things she is afraid to throw away.  Stacks of music and books and clothes she's never worn but can't give up.

  She likes to sit by the window and open the glass and the screen and hang her head and arms out of it, pretending to fly.  She waits for Romeo, practicing what Juliet would say, but changing the ending so when Romeo leaves the balcony, she goes with him and they both fly away, together.

She's not into tragedy.  She pretends, when people die on her, that they are only on hiatus, like cable television shows.  They will come back refreshed, with new haircuts and theme songs in the fall, after the oasis of summer.

She lights candles and burns incense and worries her parents, who wish she would go out more often.  She is never sad, but they still read booklets about teenagers and depression and drugs.  She doesn't tell them anything.  She is waiting; waiting for her life to begin.

Right now she is a fetus, caught up in the womb of her parent's home, feeding off them and receiving oxygen and nourishment through the window of her bedroom.  She is waiting until she is ready, to be born.

One day she sees him.

 He walks on the street like a poet, moving slowly and observing everything for later inspiration.  She watches him everyday as he walks by her window, thinking how maybe one day he'll stop and tell her that her window is the East and she is the Sun.

One night she sees him.

 He is sitting on the concrete, writing in a small black book.  "Hello," she calls down to him.

He looks at her, and his eyes are shiny like tinfoil and full of more light than the moon.  She holds her breath as he watches her, and she feels tense knowing he is deciding on her.

"You look," he begins, "as if you are about to fly."

She smiles, and painfully pushes herself out of the window, scraping her elbow and making her knee bleed.  He looks concerned, but, she thinks, birth is painful.

She hops onto the roof below her window and shimmies down the drainage pipe, landing on ground made soft by fallen leaves, a nest for her.  

She feels like she is seeing for the first time, and each breath of air tastes perfect.

He stares at her and lights up a cigarette.  "I'm trying to quit," he says, offering her one as well.  She inhales and lets out a small cough, feeling tired.  She has never smoked before.  She has never seen before.  

She has never dreamed before.

He laughs slightly, nodding at her.  She looks down, closing her eyes because, all of a sudden, everything is too beautiful.  All of a sudden, she is very tired.