I nod politely,
my eyes shift towards the green street sign a hundred feet away
the table chatter about potty training
and sleepless nights
and FaceTime calls
and zombie days from disrupted sleep of motherhood
dial down into white noise
And Sacramento Street comes to focus,
floats towards me through the thick air,
drenching me with old photographs–
of early morning meditations
and tears upon tears of misunderstandings
With whom I spent almost every Friday at this very table,
usually a bottle of Prosecco between us.
How did it happen?
Like a skyscraper going up,
those years have been built upon already,
I look down at the gray cement and bricks that hold me up
so grateful to be standing on them,
that they are fully dry, firm
longing to go back.