"i was his favorite."
the words spill out of me like a secret exiting a womb.
we are not supposed to say these things.
i am struck dumb by my own confession, realization, narcissism, etc...
she leaves for the bathroom and i hastily put my coat on, my heavy backpack on and pick up the bag of gym attire i have been carrying around for two days but have not used.
i stand in cheap dumb boots with heels that were not meant to be worn in new york city.
the weight i carry is hard.
hard on my body, my fractured ribs and soar back, my weak right knee and my swollen feet.
i catch a glimpse of myself standing with this heavy load about to prove to myself that i can walk ten blocks like this and a sad song comes on the pa system.
the mood is sad, the reflection is sad and for the first time i think to myself,
"what the fuck am i doing here?"
and not in the metaphorical existence but in the physical existence.
why am i so hard?
on my body on myself on the people i love?
why am i carrying all this shit and why i am standing in these ridiculous shoes when i could be sitting for a few momets longer?
why can't i just let myself be free?
in the physical and the metaphorical sense.
i start to get a little choked up as i am reminded of how hurtful all of the things i just confessed were.
another thought comes and before i can swallow it shoots right through the heart, "i am not my brother's mother."
and for a moment, the backpack feels just a little bit lighter.
she exits the bathroom before i can feel any more sorrier for myself and i am grateful for the interruption.
we part ways and i walk one block to the subway station.
i stand in penn station in a burgundy coat with hair to match and i start to feel like i stick out.
i do stick out.
no one there has a red coat and no one there has red hair.
and no one there is carrying two heavy bags standing in black heeled boots.
i make it to my train and write the entire trip until i feel sick and i close it up for another moment of clarity.