Tank that idea. I’ve been sitting here for hours thinking that there’s not much left – there’s really not – but there is something. Something reminiscent of tar-stained bones and frequented dive bars, all coiled up in your voice. Striking.
Eyes light up across the parking lot as the first person comes out onto the makeshift stage, pounded together from scraps of old cars and plywood torn off of the windows of old buildings. They used to be abandoned but I guess everything is abandoned now. Or occupied. It’s really all in how we look at it, right? I’m not sure I can even still call this a parking lot, no one drives anymore unless they’re a part of a convoy; too loud, too longing for unwanted attention. Besides, everything is being reclaimed by the wild. Cracks here are filled with milkweed and needlegrass and goldenrod. I imagine somewhere in the future someone will come back and there will be no pavement left, just a meadow in the midst of crumbling buildings, leaning against the river.
I stand silently but I hear people around me shushing others. Someone is about to speak. I try to listen but am caught up in my own thoughts, your voice lingering there: An ethereal presence. My mind too wild with ideas and hands too slow to write them all down anymore.