June 2, 2011


V was a six foot two red head, born a twin. I knew her when she wandered. She had a high soft voice, like whispering above an airplane engine. She wore caramel lips and a clever smile. At times, she took so long to say hello you were left tilting with your mouth open, falling in to her neck, soft as ferns. She was always crashing relationships into shore, after which she’d pack a bag for elsewhere. Her landlord was a round woman from Naples. When V left with her single suitcase she’d ask,
“When will you return?”
“Who knows, there’s so much to see.”
“Yes my vagabonda.” 
The last time I saw V was without notice or surprise, at a bar in Brooklyn. She’d boarded a bus in Cleveland where she’d taken up work as a grade school teacher. She had a few dollars and wore boots that came to her knees. She asked me where there was dancing. After a drink we walked out into February’s night where she evaporated into the ice.