Rochester? Have I written about Rochester? No, not Mister, though he hulks behind curtains, strides in his cape, catches me off guard.
Rochester. The city. New York. Once called the Flour City, more recently the Flower City.
City of another life -- city of photographs, homophones, and old, cold cemeteries.
City of white hots, first sushi, garbage plates (fries, gravy, meats, grease).
You can drive to Buffalo, you can drive to Niagara Falls.
You can be younger there, because it's from way back.
Your way back when.
You had an attic all your own, a desk, a nook.
You had a house: wooden, slanted, spacious, full.
You: too many words.
Silent mornings.
The house: yours. People came, people went. For hours and hours, you were alone. You wrote, you dawdled.
The house creaked.
You flitted among tombstones. You fluttered in libraries. You hovered over medical anomalies: weird creepies, floating in blue, floating in pink, floating in yellow. Cracked photographs. Post-mortem faces. Shrouded, grey, askew.
At home, you fried pierogies, sprinkled them with paprika, peered through curtains to a church.
You watch the answering machine. Messages are left. You talk at the callers. You put your dishes in the sink. You don't wash them.
When he finally comes home, watch him sneak things from a mailbox, hurry things under a jacket, tuck things into a book. Start holding your breath, become careful. Become quiet. Watch.
Wait.
Drive away, away from Rochester, away from lopsided houses.
Wait.
Wait.
Look back, fondly, with eyes you'd never imagined.
