#14 The Poem
There was a spot where the water was shallow and the current was low. It was the place people went on hot days when fans and opening the windows was not enough. It was a little paradise with the shade of the trees and the babbling of the water. Some of the children swam naked while others went in fully clothed. It was a place where your last name and the state of your house didn’t matter. Everyone was hot so everyone went to the river. I had nestled onto a rock with the tree branches hovering overhead, giving me plenty of shade. My notebook was balanced on my knee. I had a few lines of a poem jotted down in it, but I was searching for the right word to end a line. I was trying to capture that feeling of togetherness. “You are an artist.” A man was crouched on the rock close by. His head was tilted sideways like a curious bird. His features were thinner than all the people around me, foreign. “I write poems.” “Like music.” His eyes brightened at ...