I used to see plastic planes hanging above my head
when I went to bed.
And now in my dream, I am in one of them,
with all those years packed in a suitcase.
And now it is filled with Boston air.
There are people arriving with passports from all over the world.
We are dropped off in an American movie.
Perfectly mowed grass, red brick school buildings with ivy creeping on the sides,
a chapel with tinted glass windows, ginormous fields, a library,
a dining hall with flags hanging from the walls,
a huge clock with lights around it
A – Harry Potter–like world.
We hug our knees cheering at the football game,
we hold our heads high in class,
we pour some sauce on our barbecue,
and congratulate the chef after he brings out brownies.
We travel from Connecticut to New Hampshire.
Late summer breeze in New Hampshire.
A tiny lake with diving loons, and a foggy mountain view.
On the East side grass spiked with clovers and pines as high as clouds.
Cottages, like birdhouses, hide among the trees.
I pull a string through their chimneys
and tie it around my wrist.
The summer breeze is different, not as hot but light.
It tickles our feet in the kayak so we jump into the water
and all you can see are bubbles becoming circles on the top.
Everything is green – our tents, our blankets, the paddle boats,
my skirt when I sat on the grass,
even my roommates’ eyes.
I hit a baseball, and it flies.
It dashes over the art room,
where the pottery wheel is spinning between my knees,
my apron is dotted from molding a wet piece of clay.
It whistles over the lacrosse and tennis field,
then overtakes a frisbee,
to peep into the yoga studio
where we are in pigeon pose with calming music,
hovers over the ping pong table where we are running in circles,
but then the ping-pong ball hits the baseball
and then the bigger one bumps into the wheel of the yellow school bus.
We go hiking.
Our feet are wet in the chatty stream,
and then the water splashes everywhere,
when we run after a squirrel until it disappears in a tree,
and we have to follow our footprints back to our blue path.
We reach the top of Mount Major
and see Lake Winnipesaukee down in the valley.
I take out my water bottle, and poured the lake in it.
And the islands are chiming at the bottom of my drink.
And then we just wave at the mountains on the other side.
The next day we climb Turtle Back Mountain.
And wave back.
As the Earth moves around the sun so do the bingo balls, 73, 38, 3…
White sheets, blue pens, head tops, long desks,
and suddenly a hand…bingo!
The campfire is dancing to our songs,
and then we bake s’mores and German twist bread on the open flame.
Ashes levitating in the air like a thousand fireflies.
We lie on our blankets and stargaze,
just like the night before, on our paddle boards.
Blasting music, signs that say distances in miles,
American flags on display, small black post boxes standing on one leg,
my palm outside the car window twisting the air like a bird,
casting shadows on the yellow road marks.
The houses from my bracelet are rolling down like pearls.
The land between the pharmacy and Walgreens.
The twirls next to Dunkin’ Donuts as they swirl the frosting
Leaning on a tree trunk, in front of all the party chairs.
Acapella live performance in the harbor,
ships rocking side to side with us,
the sound of popcorn, and the coolness of Bayle’s ice cream,
little kids running around, and elderly couples dancing,
– It is simply the perfect night.
