the strange violin

E cried the whole night and could not sleep, kicking the covers and punching the air above her. I packed my luggage in the dark, as she clung to me, asking why she could not come with me. Over and over I explained that without her mother's permission, I could not take her. Over and over she asked me "why". Impossible for her to accept that one person was keeping her in Moscow.

I made an egg sandwich, and one for her which she would not eat. I barely got her dressed and out the door. Impossible to say goodbye, but somehow leaving her in a doorway tears hot on her cheeks, fingers turning to fists still, I was in the elevator and outside.

Outside, she waited in her green car. Ah, what to call her - my girl? My someone special? Well, let's call her someone who drove me to the airport which is a significant thing to do. And we are late, stuck in traffic as she changes lanes and I remain calm and then more calm, turning her dark hair in my fingers, resting my hand on her leg. She was the nervous one. I knew we would be on time.

And in truth, the flight was delayed so we spent some minutes in the main hall making silly faces at each other as we had only prepared for a fast goodbye, not a slow one.

Now in New York, I wander and meet and drink and say goodbye and hello and eat pizza, take trains and cars, walk with my jacket open looking up at the bright lights. I hold my sister, my baby niece, my old nanny. I drink honey vodka with old friends. I breathe the warm wet air deep inside me, feeling my chest about to pop the buttons on my shirt then let the air out with with a slow hiss, a sort of private smile. The city feels good under my boots. I run into people I know on the sidewalk, their children playing in the snow.

All the while, my heart is not here. It is back with E and my special girl. I am divided - - stretched across the Atlantic. Catgut strings on a strange violin. I am here but not here.

The next day the sun shines so brightly, and I realize I have been living in darkness for months. I stare at it, eyes wide open, not blinking, tears streaming down my cheeks.

maybe perfect

I bought her four red daisies, and then one more like the sun. The salesgirl wrapped them carefully in bright paper and ribbons, and I crossed the street almost falling in the snow. It's been a long time since I carried flowers down the sidewalk. She is already waiting for me, and takes them with one of her nervous smiles.

Is it really possible, for the first time - flowers from a man?

We go to a little French place, a bit brighter than I would like (although they did turn the lights down at about 9). I take your coat and hang it across the room, making my way back through a thicket of chairs as you laugh at my funny shoes, the yellow shirt half-tucked in. I take your hand, turning it between both of mine on the white paper that covers the table, our order scribbled by the waitress in the corner. You stare at me with giant eyes that never seem to blink. Your hair pushed back, you have become familiar and maybe I see more clearly now. It's our third date, and there are no more awkward pauses. There is only the cigarette smoke hanging in the air above our heads, the baby making bubbly noises at the table next to us and the accordian that begins to play.

Later, we walk in the perfect snow falling on us, as I wrap my arm around your waist guilding you between the drifts and then just in the street. I think I should really try to kiss you at some point, but now we're inside looking for another corner table to hibernate in. Sharing coffees and both of our desserts, the room becomes a sort of blurry painting. There is only your nose, your chapped lips, the freckles on your chest disappearing beneath a black camisole. There is only your hand in mine, and our circling conversations punctuated by long silences when we just stare at each other like teenagers.

Suddenly 2AM, your smile as big as the moon we go back outside. The snow just kept falling and we slip and slide back to your little green car. I wipe the snow and ice away as you warm yourself inside, music blaring, checking your eyeliner in a little mirror. I see it all, dancing around in the freezing air.

Downstairs from my house I kiss you for the first time, and we cannot say goodnight.

And maybe things are perfect for the first time, and there is no reason to say goodnight. Better to be with each other, better not to sleep alone. Better to dance in slow circles half naked in my living room with the cat playing with your house keys. Maybe better to turn off the music, turn off the lights and hold you as the snow just keeps falling in slow-motion corkscrews. Because you are ready to held now, just like me. You are ready to stretch out next to me on a giant purple blanket, and maybe we'll sleep a few perfect minutes before the sun comes up, or the sky turns bright. Maybe you'll rest your head on my shoulder, with some stray mascara on your cheek.

just an avocado and goodnight

Woke up late, the sky already a bright pale blue. The house was still clean. Well, clean enough. Fed the cat, drank the coffee, checked the messages and then outside my jacket open to a soft wind. Marching down the avenue listening to Pet Sounds on the headphones, thumping my hand against my leg as the stores say "sale".

And here the little vegetable stand, Angelica asks we what I am cooking and I say guacamole with grapefruit and almonds, quesadillas with homemade tortillas. She smiles blandly, pretending to understand. Mexican food does not exist here. I could just as well say I was frying up meteors.

"For who?" She asks.

I smile.

She nods back, and puts an extra avocado in the bag for free.

At rinock, the place is choatic - the slick floor always a perfect way to end up on your ass. I buy bulochki and take giant mouthfuls of the soft, fragrant bread. Here is my cheese lady. She has a giant space between her two front teeth. I taste three options, and buy half a kilo of the saltiest, creamiest one. It feels heavy in my hand, soft and wet.

At home I am suddenly tired (after making the chocolate mousse), and take a nap in the clean living room, with the cat curled up on my knees. The floor is smiling at me.

Three o'clock and I'm knee deep in dough and roasted hot peppers, cleaning shrimp, revising the cocktail sauce with some paste I bought in Chinatown the last time I was in New York. The avocados are lined up on the windowsill like sleeping wild animals.

I'm playing the CD I made for her, loud in the other room. Did I say too much? Not enough?

And then it's 5 when she's supposed to get here and she's on time which never happens in Moscow, or really anywhere. I am going down in the elevator, trying to see if i have any giant hairs sticking out of my head that I might have missed, hoping my breath smells like ginger, or cinnamon. And she is already inside, with a noisy bunch of keys, a giant purse, her nervous smile, black hair to hide behind.

She is rolling her eyes, eating slowly, her feet curled beneath her. The sky is dark, and we talk long into the night, as I keep making her cups of coffee. We never do watch that film.

Later, I clean the snow from her funny little car. It's an impossible stretch of time, these seconds when a goodbye kiss could present itself. The moment passes, and she offers her cheek.

Her perfume hangs in the air as she gets in and drives off.

I think she'll like the CD.

close to Garfield, off of Prospect Park

E is asking me a lot of questions these days, like what is inside the moon. Walking home from school, clutching my hand as she slips on the ice every few meters we discuss astrology, chemistry and the ingredients for tiramisu. She likes to ask me what I was like when I was four, or five or seven.

My brother and I had a babysitter named Adrianne, a student of my father's from one of his drawing classes. She had long, straight dark hair and a magnificent nose in the center of her face, as I liked to think of it. Adrianne smelled of lemons, and fresh soap. She knew how to make the best shake-n-bake chicken, and her brother wore giant bellbottom sailor pants, with about a million buttons on them. We played a lot with wooden toys and marbles.

She turned the living room into a great white cloth-draped fortress with us one long afternoon, and we watched Yellow Submarine in the soft light inside it, on the tiny TV in the corner.

We left Brooklyn when I was five. On our last afternoon together she brought us to a wet piece of sidewalk. We forced our hands into the fresh cement, then scrawling our initials with a bottle cap. In my imagination, this tiny artifact still exists, somewhere close to Garfield, off of Prospect Park.

When I told this to E, she stopped in the street, her breath forming wet clouds around her. She stared at me, fiercely.

"It's still there, Pop." She said.

She rested her mittened hand on my shoulder.

She nodded once.

I nodded back.

She let out a deep breath.

Later, we made tiramisu.

the drifter

Johnny Cash is on, playing "I'm a Drifter", and I'm working on a Sunday afternoon. Little E has set up a village of dolls next to me, barking orders, pronouncing made-up names with little flourishes. The cat is sleeping between my bare feet.

Got no one to call my own no more.

Got no strings to tie me down.

Got no cause to hang around.

What difference does it make, which way I go?

I hear some noise from upstairs. It's not the workers in the hallway, dropping paint cans, chipping away at broken tiles on the floor.

I'm a drifter,

A lonesome drifter.

No, it's the steady creak of a bed, thumping against a wall. You can hear them, if you filter out the other sounds. He is talking to her in a low voice. She makes a sort of squeal and then a short moan.

I pour myself a glass of water and watch the tiny bubbles rising.

Got no place to call my own no more.

I'm a wanderer,

A lonesome wanderer.

E looks up at me. She's happy, playing restaurant, completely in her own world. The cat rolls onto my slipper, looking for an even better sleeping place. I wonder if I'll ever get the chance to take my guitar out of its case and write a new song like I used to on days like this. I used to get takeout Chinese food from Mee Fun on 1st Avenue and 13th street on Sunday afternoons, standing in line watching the steam paint the windows, the soup guys splashing broth over the wontons, sipping tea from giant plastic takeout cups, sometimes looking me in the eye, recognizing me.

She repeats her sounds - an unchanging cycle. I can't listen to them any more.

Staring at my hands, I close my eyes and listen to my own breathing. I force myself to smell Spring coming. I remember how I would split a long piece of grass and hold it between my lips when I was a boy. I think of women I have known on quiet afternoons like those people upstairs. I think of a little bedroom with the lights off. Her giant white comforter is luminous on a rainy day as I kiss her shoulder and ask her if she's getting hungry. That was a long time ago. She has a child of her own now.

I wish those guys would start working in the hallway again.

Who can know what waits beyond this road?