10-Line Tuesday

March 31, 2015

en route to the Statue of Liberty

He was brought here, no doubt, by parents aiming to hit all of Manhattan's
high notes, their wallets jammed with receipts from the whirlwind tour. 
The boat's peeling through the water, leaving whitecaps in its wake, but he
doesn't look up at what the brochures were raving about. Instead, he fixes his back
against a center pole, slides to the floor, and I find myself aiming lower with my gaze,
ignoring, too, the advance of the woman and her torch, that defiant fist,
her glorious green silhouette against a faultless blue sky. 
I lean back in my seat, lean back to ten years old, or eight, when the rush and clamor
of time was meaningless, when magnificence was the island around my own feet,
when I needed only my chin in my hands to steady the world into focus.