More wicked

I have a dream where I'm walking the streets of New York City.

With my son held high against my chest.

We smell the spices of little stores mixing with asphalt, sweat and the sheer busyness of now.

Out of the dark and faceless throng breaks a dash of light and color.

The way she walks on the balls of her feet, every step a little dance.

I feel a smile break across my face and his mirrors mine, like we're watching a sunrise together.

His hand grabs the back of my neck and slips a bit in the heat as he prepares to lean out and grab her.

He misses as she passes. By the distance of a breath.

And if she sees us, she doesn't stop, disappearing back into the crowd with a long stride. We turn to watch her.

A hard shoulder slams into us. And then another and another. Packages, feet, elbows, all trying to find their way into our soft bodies as we stand in the stream.

I wade to the side of a building, covering my son from the pain of the world with my arm as the river of people bump and jostle past.

We make it to the shadowed base, rough brick against the flesh. His sausage fingers digging into me with sudden fear.

"They can't see us because we're skellingtons, daddy," he says.

The boy looks at me with serious eyes, a question in the pools of brown.

I wipe a hint of sweat from his forehead and tousle his hair, the smell intoxicating as I kiss his head.

Looking up, the brownstones become green blades of grass and the people, ants dancing on sidewalks of dirt.

Skyscrapers of gray headstone blot out the blue sky.

"Yes we are," I tell my empty arms.