Leana
It's Friday, September Eleventh, Two Thousand & Nine. The season has changed overnight. I drop my son off for his second day of school and pass through the Borinquen section. Two weeks ago there would have been no one around, a ghost town until noon. Today it is hustle and bustle at quarter past nine, crowds outside bodegas talking loud Spanglish, dark women with high hair rolling up the metal doors to their neon covered salons. In the city the storks are out. It's a fashion week menagerie of tall and taller, skinny and comatose, beautiful and bizarre in black, grey, fuchsia and urine. I see Leana on the train. She is bundling off to the show room on Norfolk, frazzled by the necessity. Fantasy football has started. I get to work and fret over the uncleverness of dropping Derrick Mason or whether I ought to start Reggie Bush or Ray Rice. I don't even like football. It is my mother's birthday.
1 comment:
some how this made me laugh.
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