Brickmelt

"The whole glacier
does some things
with time that I
can't really describe..."
Days with H. are like that now, too.

Highlights from Wednesday:

1. The dustbowl near the Hudson is an ice skating rink. I'm not allowed on the ice until I put on my skates. Even then, I am clearly second string. But he's kind about it.

2. A giant piece of train is buried below the West Side Highway, must be off 59th street but--and, yeah, this goes without saying--all maps dissolve. We go there every Wednesday, my summer day off, to see if it is unlocked. I know it will never be unlocked, the locks have rusted, someone has forgotten, some lawyer has ruled and run off... But he can imagine his way past the locks and I am learning that trade, which means I'm not lying when I say, "yeah, let's go there, things might be different this time."

3. On the way we sit under a canopy tree. It's a rainforest. We have planted three dinosaur eggs there. At night, before bed, we do a little harvesting, but not too much.

4. Conversation. Me: "You know, you have to be a little careful with all this talk of farting. Farts are actually kind of gross. People don't like them." Him: "No daddy. Farts are good. They're a little funny. I'm going to have to check with mommy on this."

5. At night he says, "I've never been out at night. I wonder what it would be like." So we go out. Late. After 10. When mostly it's just people walking dogs or heading out to have drinks. He observes (everything): "There are no clouds . . . Actually, there are a few clouds . . . It's beautiful . . . Where are the stars? . . . I haven't seen a sunset in so long . . . What do they do in the supermarket when it gets night-night out? . . . Those dogs, where are their mommies?"

Time means I am falling in love with a poem carved in smoke.