A Darkroom Diary

Oona's Tree, 2011

I used to climb a tree when I was allowed to hang, literally, in front of my old house 

in Jackson Heights.  I'd jump onto its arm like a gymnast, then sit to let my feet dangle for days.  Looking up, I'd see 

the chipped veins branch out into a baby blue sky.  If I squint hard enough, 

I can pinpoint exactly when my tree started to shrink. The way older people do when they can't take 

the bus anymore. The way the corner candy store began to stay open all night.  

The way Mister Softee chimed from a million blocks away. I wanted to hold onto that tree 

as the city shifted.  In the nights before we moved. When I knew 

the woods were waiting for me to leave.