Shannon-

You remember Cloud Running?

When we used to pick up a six-pack of the cheapest beer we could find at Junior’s bodega and venture out to the highest point in Prospect Park? We had to climb over a fence when nobody was watching, I had to boost you over, but it was worth it. Nobody around, just the playfields below us and, in the distance, the tops of the highest buildings in Manhattan. And we’d huddle together, our butts planted in crisp fallen leaves and dead grass, slightly buzzed from the first sips of beer and the residual huffing and puffing of making it up to our secret spot. And we’d watch the clouds roll over the city, enveloping One World Trade, making their way towards Brooklyn, towards us. And just as we’d think the clouds were passing over Brooklyn Heights, we’d finish what was in our hands and run screaming out of the hills towards my apartment, trying to beat the oncoming downpour. People stepped, no, jumped, out of the way as we crossed the park, together but not hand in hand, running with each other, but not as one. Drizzle splattered our faces as we reached my stoop, and we’d glance up at each other, our hands on our knees, out of breath, sharing a knowing smile, an evening together begun, thinking, real thinking, postponed another day, and we allowed ourselves to be nothing more than us for another night. We’d escaped the storm, which was just a storm, nothing else. We really ran though, remember?

Anyway, last night, I trudged up to that ridge in the park. It was pretty clear, around 5, and this time, I carted with me only a brown-bagged can of Other Half Green Diamonds, (remember, the one with the 8.7 ABV you thought tasted like old tampon?) Anyway, I sat where we used to park ourselves, hugging my overcoat around me, a lean-to without anything to lean against, looking towards Manhattan, looking for clouds. I watched and waited for them to wander in from Pennsylvania, slide over Jersey, make a b-line towards New York City, and then zero in on us me.

But fuck if it didn’t stay clear, the only change being from the color of your eyes to the color of that coat you used to wear whenever you thought you needed to look art-sy. It never threatened rain, thunder, anything, and, at no particular time, beer emptied, bladder full, I headed home, leaving my empty in the aluminum graveyard we began last November. (Don’t worry, I’ll recycle them soon, as promised.) I walked toward home, stepping through my now visible breath, down past the baseball fields, and paused when I heard a child yelling down on one of the baseball fields. The afternoon still had a few minutes on the evening, so I could still make out two little kids, five-ish years old I think, dressed in puffy down jackets, one hoisting a stick, the other standing a few feet behind him crouched in a catcher’s stance. A man, I suppose their dad, stood on the pitcher’s mound, going through a series of exaggerated pitching motions. He spit on his fingers, bent over at the knees to get signs from his young catcher, brought his hands to his chest, and with a wild series of kicks and swings, he threw an imaginary ball to the plate. A mighty swing of the bat by this tiny body sent the dad sprinting off into the outfield, and the child chugging towards where he envisioned first, second, then third base. His older brother screamed as the dad flew towards the rumbling kid, just the right amount of steps behind. They were all in on it. They saw the ball pitched, hit, being chased, and, Jesus, how much joy it gave each of them. What was, in real life, not real at all, made them all happy, gave them all distinct legitimate feelings. The kid slid into home plate just ahead of the tag.

Safe.

I walked home a little quicker, smiling, but tired, my head a little fuzzy from that that 8.7 ABV. I tried calling you. I wanted to tell you about the game I’d just seen. I thought you’d think it was great. You didn’t answer, but I didn’t leave a message. Actually, in retrospect, I’m glad you weren’t there. It all would have seemed much more than it really was. You’d have asked, “Why are you telling me this?,” or “What does that mean?” But it doesn’t mean anything. I just thought of you, did something we used to do together, saw something we could’ve seen together, and I thought of you. No crime. I hope Boulder is treating you well. I don’t really know what’s happening, but don’t feel like I’m pressuring you into writing me back. Nothing is as serious as we make it out to be. Nothing stands for anything. Everything can just be as it is.

 Charlie