Daisy

The wind in my face.  With my eyes closed it’s almost as if things had never changed.  The sun is warm; the air feels bright.  I lock the front door and walk in the direction of the bus stop.  Leaves crinkle and crunch, stirring up the smell of early fall.  Mailbox.  Sidewalk.  I’ve stopped wondering why the neighbor’s dog barks at everything, he has become just another landmark.  Stop sign. Lamppost.  Bus stop. The bus door opens with a wheezing sigh.  The driver greets me warmly, his voice deep and syrupy.  I sit close to the front and try to guess where each passenger is headed as they get on.  An unwashed man, silent except for the flap of worn out sneakers heads to the back of the bus. Laborers in heavy shoes and plastic windbreakers.  A working mother and her son, whose stage whispers entertain me while I count the stops.  At my stop I pause with the traffic at my back, picturing a map in my head.  Another block, a crosswalk, a door.  Inside, the AC clicks on inspite of the balmy weather outside. I pad down the carpeted halls to a room.  At the end of the room, a piano.  I sit and play, no longer worried with what I sense, simply wrapped in feeling.  In my music I can see. I can recall blue skies; red and yellow leaves; neon lights; gray, misty mornings.  Sunsets, paintings of sunsets.  I’m crying.  I get up and count the number of turn to the front door.  The number of steps to the bus stop.  The number of stops home.  The number of days since I saw the sun.