Of Living, and Leaving

I shall ever remember Baltimore,
the city where wigs lie in the gutter,
disheveled as a small animal, discarded, forgotten.
This thing,
of momentary fashion, fad, beauty,
torn away; what does it reveal beneath?

Three weeks, and I shall be leaving. This new life, this different life, this very old life. Is the payment for hard, honest work perhaps peace of mind, dare I say happiness? Can I rip off the pretenses and facades, as these Baltimore women fling the wigs from their heads, perhaps in passion, perhaps in flight, late at night? Perhaps, perhaps. Time shall tell, really, how different a life it may be. Those who believe tell me it can be anything I make it, they have such faith in my craziness. Perhaps they are right.

Now it just remains to get there, to see, to start. The apartment that I’ve called “home” for the past two years is slowly emptying. The rain still beats upon the window, but it has a hollow sound now. Gone, gone, almost gone. There are many goodbyes to say; more than I expected, but that’s always how it goes, you are noticed when you leave, not when you arrive.

St Croix beckons, and I am there already, in mind, if not in body. There is much to do now.