As I walk past Macy’s on 34th street
on my way to Mary’s apartment,
I see the poinsettias peeking through
the Christmas wreaths strung up with lights
and feel a jolt through my body.
October is for poetry and whimsy,
but I am ready for the cheer instead.
The buildings around me agree, all
dressed up in their trimmings.
I can breathe again—no longer
stifled by humidity and humiliation.
In a button-down, cardigan, and tights,
the transitional air is crisp—the suffocation
surrounding my esophagus slowly disappearing,
making for a sweet season of worship.
So when I see the fairy lights on 34th street,
I text Mary,
almost on the Q train!
so she knows where I am
when my cheerful text delivers.
And she’ll wait while I ponder,
during every uptown stop,
about the way the lights reflect off my mother’s smile,
and the way gin starts to taste appealing
because your lips are full of pine and warmth.
Your blue hues and sparkling madness, tucked
somewhere between the warmth of a doorstop
and the cold snow trying to seep through.
No words can quite describe the exquisite
nature of the sparks that fly out of my chest
whenever winter whispers my name.
I text Mary,
I’m outside!
And what a joy it is to feel this free.
Sydney Shaffer is a preschool teacher, poet, and book lover living on Long Island. She is a creative writing graduate from SUNY Purchase. Her poems are portraits of her life that include magical and whimsical imagery.
Featured image by Fred Heap on Unsplash.
