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Where shall I go today?

Written By

David Steven Simon

I’m staring up at the destination board
Of my brain
Calculating the arrivals
And departures.

Hmmmmmm.
Let’s see.

I can take the 12:25 AM
A direct flight
back to opening night
the
Precise moment of my birth
Brooklyn, New York
Young parents
Older sister
Waiting at the gate
For me
Armed with bouquets
And baby’s breath.

Or.
I can plan a far more
Twisty itinerary.
The first stop
is my baby boy room
A living, breathing thing that I lived in
In a shy, garden apartment building
Which was as quiet as a cotton field at night
As pesky shadows played tag
On the ceiling
While the outside world
Hummed like  mommy when she washed
The floors
And whistled why she worked
And I floated in my
My crib
The cradle of my civilization.

Then its on to years later nursery school
Me in trouble
Banished to the kitchen
Again
Where all the criminals of
Childhood are sent
Where I wailed like
A baby in a Max Fleisher
Cartoon

Then I could fly from
birthday cake to birthday cake
And land on
Summers at the beach
Where the best part of the day
Was being burrowed beneath
A blanket tented
Chaise lounge
Listening to the out there ocean tumble
That sounded like floppy towels in a dryer
Hearing the foreign mumble of
Grownups
Who exhaled Viceroys
And mouth swished cans of Piels
While Canasta cards were flutter dealt
Meat darkened on
White hot coals
And cobs waited to be chomped on
Like typewriter carriages.

And then I can soar over
The years at camp
Where I got to shed the
Heavy cloak of
Sadness
That my mom
wore like a floor length  mink
Even on the hottest day
Where I could finally got to be the me
That I rarely
If ever
Got to be
Without a concerted, pyramid building effort.

Then it’s off to the landing strips of
School rooms
And the overspill of crushes
Of slender hipped teachers
And brown eyed girls
Who would telepathically say
Yes
I would like to dance with you too.

From there it’s high school
And college
And that first job
And the ones who were the one
Over and over
Again
The doomed marriage
The pods of children
The travels
The affairs
The secrets
The blunders
The lousy impulses

They are all in the travel agency brochure.
Feel free to skim.

Fast forward to now
With all these miles logged.
All I can think about is
I am beat.
Old man whipped.
No more travels.  Ever.
It’s over.

Which is always followed by:

So where am I going now?

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