She rode her BMX bike, a several times handed down hand me down from one of her boy cousins, in the empty, late night streets of East Maryville.
Grids of small, worse for wear homes, that seemed haunted in street lamps and in the darkness.
She didn’t have a place to go, an errand to complete, she just wanted to ride, ride all night, as if around and around the neighborhood, she could achieve escape velocity.
Dru and the Alcoholics played on her earbuds. Her Uncle William had told her the first time he listened to a Walkman, while walking at night, it’d felt like the music was being beamed directly into his head.
She felt that now, riding around the still neighborhood, the distant and reverbed and melancholy music blotting out the world, filling her with dreams of lost love, dislocation.
She had a playlist of her favorite songs, played on a loop on her mp3 player. She could remake the world, hide the world, blow up the world, fill herself with what she needed.
She rode to The Greenbelt, by the dam by the old public library. She sat on the shore at it’s bottom, still listening to music.
She was restless, but the world seemed so small anymore, as if every demon and every rot was everywhere, all at once, no Shangri-La to place your hopes on.
The world was burning, and no one who could stop it would, and she wondered what would be left for her, what future could be hers, in whatever remained.
She rode the trails of The Greenbelt, with her music, with her still lingering thoughts of love and hope, still coming close to something from the stars.
The night was warm, and held hope and danger, angels and demons, and the sighing eye of a God who was everywhere and silent.
She rode and rode and rode, with her music and her spells, as if she might mike escape velocity, and leave this dying world behind.