sorting through the storm.
By Anne Littlewood
you can’t go backwards, but you can always come back. much needed words in a moment of rawness, a moment mended with a cup of chamomile, steaming on a sunday morning in the storm. lately it’s always storming: twenty seven degrees and espresso- but i don’t mind the pink-nose air, steaming cup of coffee nestled in knees on the back of the bus, headphones working to mend the morning into a memory, a moment. and we’re screaming, singing, smiling: these are the moments we live for, so go outside and leap in the storm -or lie on the floor and eat chocolate and mend those high school wounds, forget the boy but remember the love that you won’t ever get back … wrap your fingers round the mug. watch the steam. rain sounds different here in the east. it hisses, steams as it falls through humidity to bless the moment, spraying and spitting its chaotic cleanse on the backs of students who are not in the mood to get lost in the storm. i’ve learned there’s no better soundtrack than the rain but only if you’re looking to be unwound- not mended. do i want someone around to mend my seams, stitch my soul, steal my steaming thoughts in the predawn hours? (maybe.) but it’s pouring on someone new in this moment and i’m watching his sneakers get soaked in the storm too far gone. no turning back. so i’m chewing on a pen, scrawling words on the back of my biology exam. are they enough to mend the windy scribbles of thought in my storm? perhaps the right words. perhaps I’ll still be steaming next year, searching for the sensible way to use the moment, the perfect conjunction to add to my life (and, or, but?) glancing back, i can’t see you, but i don’t need your mending in this moment: the storm is coming. the chamomile is steaming.