Annabelle
Sunday night
Packing for New York,
I picture this:
The bus crossing
the Lincoln Tunnel, emerging
into Manhattan, Christopher and me pointing
out the Empire State Building
the Chrysler Building,
and other famous landmarks.
The yellow taxis winding
through busy streets, cutting
through Greenwich Village, taking
us to where the conference is waiting
at NYU.
In the morning,
the store grates scraping,
pigeons cooing,
and cars honking
will wake everyone up and send us hurrying
to our workshops.
In the evening
Christopher and I will be gazing
at stars splashed across the high ceiling
of the Planetarium
My mom is helping
me pack and I can feel her thinking
that this is my first step to leaving
her behind—she keeps sighing
heavily, like she is picturing
the saddest things in the world.
I know it wasn’t easy, having
me so young, raising
me alone, putting
her dreams on hold, forgetting
about things she’d been wanting
to do forever, like dancing
on Broadway, singing
in musicals, taking
on the world like I am about to.
I can’t imagine anything stopping
me from living
the kind of life I want.
And when we’re in the workshops, learning
about ways to make a difference, sharing
ideas with other kids, I know I’ll be thinking
about my mom, working
at a job she doesn’t really like, giving
me so much.
Whatever I end up doing
it will have meaning
because of her.
I won’t leave without telling
her that.