It's my reflection I stare at in the half lit
LIRR window this time.
Full lips, flat cheeks, straight nose,
hair framing my face. My eyes are hidden in the
darkness, but I can still see me. For the first time in a long time, I see simple beauty in the mirror. I realize my face has
matured. Something about me is no longer
girlish and small and just cute. I often wondered when I was younger if I'd ever notice the moment of
metamorphasis from girl to woman. I understand now that it's not something that happens overnight. I've spent my whole life becoming who I am today. And now, I see I've crossed that
milestone.
Today, Friday, I am an angry, jaded woman. But I know the girl in me will return tomorrow, adding the usual shine to my eyes. Anger passes for me. Hurt passes through me, stopping only to remind me of my dislike for it. I move on because I've been consumed by the negative too long. It feels good to feel good and each new setback fuels me to live and love more.
No sooner do I start to reflect upon my present pains, though, than I look out the window to see my old haunts, the neighborhood of my youth, Elmhurst, Queens. I always do seem to end up living near train tracks. The view out my apartment window now is definitely more ideal, though, considering I haven't any memories (bad or good) with the Metro-North tracks. The Conrail tracks hold memories of cutting junior high, and my earlier days with weed. The first time I saw a pipe I literally thought they were smoking crack. I knew nothing except rolling a joint, which I still can't do right to this day.
I vividly remember walking the tressel we just passed, wary of falling between the gaps to the ground below. I'll climbclimbclimb, but I'm gonna piss my pants when I peer over the edge. Just push me out of a plane and I'll be fine. But I'll be damned if I take that first step alone.
Another bridge, industrial park area. I can smell the frantic can of spray paint claiming a section on the wall behind us, and the cigarettes smoked. The conversation with my teenage fuck buddy wondering what it would be like to have sex in a black hole.
Calamus Avenue, the condo construction site. Not the one where I lost my virginity, though. That one's further up Grand Avenue, in a little hell called Maspeth. If I had to choose a place to call my crackhouse, it would have been this building, though. It had been erected in bits and pieces over the years, progress slowed by neighborhood arguments. I remember when the upper levels of this brick building hadn't been built yet, and the sky was open. Once and only once I found the courage to walk a beam from wall to wall. Would I have the balls to walk it now? I like risk, but I think at this point I'm smart enough to rig up a rope harness just in case I fell. I'm an adventurous girl, but I'd really like to live to take chances again. I take a lot for granted, but I'm not ready to be held accountable for my actions in this life. I'm still paying off my debts.
Would I have become who I am today if I was still confined to Queens? Old faces, bad memories. Entrapments, of sorts. I was a different person then. I think I've survived the neighborhood better than most I've run into. Amusingly, I was rumoured to be part of the problem back then.
No answers for now, though. Train ride's over.
Beautiful woman, exit stage left.