Wellesley, October 2007 by Alana Dakin (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) I remember what it’s like to need a cigarette to keep putting one foot in front of the other I remember how the frigid Massachusetts wind burned my cheeks and how the collar of my wool coat rubbed my neck raw. Every crack of that long sidewalk, every molting oak and wrought-iron lamppost is imprinted in my mind like a smooth, white scar. I remember the way the dry smoke would mix with the sour taste of stale coffee on my tongue as I would follow the same path every day, past the Starbucks, the town bookstore, the Italian restaurant I remember passing stately New England homes, each porch and stoop adorned with round, orange gourds carefully positioned to hide the darkened patch where they had once lain on the cool, damp earth And I remember looking into the light of those crudely carved pumpkins and knowing what it was like to have your insides scraped out and discarded, how it felt to walk around with that false jack-o-lantern smile.
|
