I’m on the N train heading to Manhattan from Bay Ridge and there’s a fat Mexican baby in a dull red stroller. She is screaming her heart out. I’m trying to read an article in New York magazine recommended to me by a co-worker, but I don’t think I’ll make it to the end. I’ve read enough about addiction to know how ugly it can be; I don’t want to live through it again.
In any case, my own thoughts are fighting against the words on the page. A few days ago I wrote, “Children need to love their parents in order to better love themselves.” Today, I wonder if it works another way. When I was a child, I resented having to take care of myself, resented having to be mature. Now, I’m old enough to accept it, and maybe I should do more. Maybe parents need to know their children love them.
The moment I think this, I wonder if I’m falling into a trap.
The fat Mexican baby is still crying when we enter the sunlight and cross the bridge into Manhattan. The red brick homes are covered in so much graffiti. In my mind, I’m singing John Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery.”
My old man is another child that’s grown old
If dreams were lightning and thunder was desire
This old house would’ve burnt down a long time ago
Thanks to 1000Magicians.
