I love the view from the bridge. I always have. The sounds and the people fishing off the ledges. The way the wind engages my face like fingers on a piano to play a smile. The wind seems to know the right nerves to touch when humans forget. Even if the smile is false, it feels good to pretend. I decide that legs should touch the railing. I climb. One foot then leg swinging like a pendulum over the edge, I move with intention.
They say magic is supposed to leave the audience wanting more; however, this magic act is a disappearing trick where there is no reappearance after the grand reveal. Tah-da or Abracadabra, black boy hits water with a belly flop and a muffled scream! What is the trick? Oh, he cannot swim.
She interrupts my second leg coming to the magic show, "Hello, would you like a cookie?" I stare at her. She asks again, "Would you like a cookie?" She reaches out a hand with the cookie. It is warm. I guess she doesn't like magic. She is warm. One hand holds the cookies. One hand holds me. She slides her hand around my waist. It is uncomfortable so I bring my leg that was swinging back over the railing to the ground. The cookie is delicious, chocolate and brown like me.
The wind paints our faces red. We sit against the rails. She listens and asks if I like cookies. I tell her that I do. The firefighters scurry about like bakers that are almost too late to get the cookies from the oven. The woman smirks and ask the firefighter if he wants a cookie.
The door closes to the ambulance with me inside. My mom thanks the woman. I thank the cookie. I don't know where we are going but I am sure it's better than where I've been. The siren sounds. The paramedic asks, "How was your day?"
I say nothing. Tears rest on the last half of the cookie.
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Timothy Moore can be found on his writing website www.urbanthoughtspoetry.com