We Were The Skyline by Pam Avoledo

He was never mine, a woman across the street says to her mother. A white garage door raised by an inch, and there was a charcoal angel statue folding her arms in the red and yellow tulips with the Virgin Mary encased in a grotto, standing on black wood mulch, a thin smirk on her face as I passed. Lavender spray-painted lines on the lifted pavement, an oval stamp from National Cement with 2013 in the upper left-hand corner and the church bells ring from a block away. 

Your car drives by, chipped paint on the side door, skull hanging from the rearview mirror, vinyl record stickers on the dash, you’ll only buy American-made. Eighty on the highway, strange voices on the radio, and we have three hours before we reach Cincinnati. You say you wish your relationship with your dad was better, you say you were animated last night in your dream, your body in a rotoscope, dividing into thirds as you live in a loop and you say you want to come back. 

You turned a sharp left and I held onto the door panel, my head whirling, the maroon brick fusing with the sapphire sky. Are you ok? Are you here? I asked, and we were the skyline, murals and sculptures, towers and bridges, hiding in museums and reading clues to the fairy doors in the city. The turn signal lights up on your car and you make a right onto the side street, heading for the main road. 

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Photo by Lance Asper on Unsplash