I open the front door and push on the screen. Heat hits me in the face and I'm reminded that it's still a damp Tallahassee summer. But it's better than a dry August in San Antonio and I step onto the stairwell, clutching a water glass by the base, full of pale white wine. What is this place? Does heaven have magnolia trees and a collective sweat that drips down the backs of it's citizens? Is my Aunt Mary there playing spades, the Tia that I remember. Before she got sick and her body regressed into the ground. Make me whole so that one day I'll see you again.
But I'm also reminded of the shortcomings that would prevent me from reaching peace and the ghosts that have only recently left this place. I knew that you were here, I could see you in the faces of every passing driver. You were on the next bar stool and drinking coffee with me on my way to work. I could feel you, like some heavy breather without a sense of personal space. A close talker. You hated it when I claimed downtown as if I had any right to it. That was your space, too. But this is mine. Extend me that courtesy. You can have my dignity, the memories of Stone Mountain, of Christmas, of my mother's wedding. The thought of your face in my family pictures turns my heart cold. And now you're here. You can take what you want, but leave me my magnolia trees.
-August 16, 2008
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