The Tempest

Suddenly I was on the subway again, familiar rituals hurtling forward as if nothing had happened. The neighborhood people less impressed this time around with my reappearance--Oh, you're back. Again. The cats felt the same. My make-up has worn off, the bruises fading more quickly now that the repetitive action has ceased, the curls allowed to run rampant, I've said good-bye once, twice, over again and over and over. The welcoming committee shot me in the mouth with Novocaine, bumped into me on 60th and Lex, left me with a broken towel rod, and some rotting food in the refrigerator. But I've been tossed up by the ocean before--forced into an underwater spiral, eyes drawn open by the velocity, my father searching for me, his heavier body scratched by sand. I came up to the surface and had a sip from my mother's Pepsi, and never looked at the sea the same way again. But always dove back in.