The thing that happen when the building blocks are shaken away is that all you see, from the top of the primary colored skyscraper, is the ground. The first floor. The ground floor. You see your first love. Your first loves. You/I see yourself/myself, in j.s truck, driving in the rain, at night, on 880, to drive up to tahoe. to meet lynn and larry an denise and tom in that casino. With that horrible buffet. I can’t drink because I’m not of legal age. I am working at Phillips Brooks School, in Menlo Park, off of Sand Hill Road. I am taking classes at Foothill. Jay is still working at NASA Ames. I still own my home, my first home, on Lafayette Street. My mother had been gone 2.5 years. Jay’s girlfriend, Sue, still has her stuff in their garage. Because of me. He’s told me so many times that she was awful. His first and, thus far, only girlfriend. The only other person he’s ever fucked. I was the second. I am special. I am safe. I am always in the passenger seat and I love it. I feel safe when j. drives. He drives me to see my grandmother in half moon bay. I am safe in the car. We drive to the hills, the Los Altos Hills, every Sunday, to have dinner with his family. I’d never had family dinners. I’m so safe. So loved. We get married right there, in that house–outside. We–everyone–can see the bay. I am so happy. So safe. So safe so safe so–
Safety is an observation.
From the sky, now, where it is scary and lonely and painful–I see the ground. I see empty space: heavy, humid air. All the blocks: blue, red, green, yellow–take a bite of peach–the blocks are gone and I don’t know how I got here, where I am, in the sky. I like toasted sandwiches. I like them with a specific baguette, because it reminds me of–I don’t know. Those blocks are gone.
Michelle O’Kane 