“Massachusetts Avenue!” I yell walking with her down Westwood. “I always seem to find the Massachusetts Avenue in every city. Somehow.”
We continue walking, past Bristol Farms and she asks, “Is that it right there? Should we cross?”
“No,” I say, “it’s past the FedEx, on the next block up there. See it? Paris Bakery?”
“Ah,” she says.
In front of us, a team with heavy machinery is putting up a billboard. The arm of a crane hangs over the sidewalk which is peppered with orange cones.
“I don’t like this at all,” I say, and step out into the road. She chuckles. Two busses speed toward us and I think of the irony of being flattened by a bus while trying to avoid a few cones. They fire by without killing us, and as they do, we catch a gust of wind and I am 18 on Sandy Neck when the sun is rising and the day is pink and promised only to beachgoers.
As my long hair dances after the busses I say, “Ah! It’s a beautiful morning. It’s a perfect morning!” The orange sun covers everything gently, my naked legs are feeling the air and I’m inspired. Crossing Massachusetts Avenue, I start like I’m at a recital, “If I die, don’t come, I wouldn’t want a leaf to turn away from the sun. It loves it there. There’s nothing so spiritual about being happy but you have to enjoy it, because it doesn’t last.”
She puts her hand on the back of my neck, over my hair. “Who is that?” she asks. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s Frank O’Hara,” I say. “One of my favorite poems and I think I butchered it.”
I look up the correct words and I read them to her. We cross the street into the shade of the Paris Bakery.