Too soon

"It's getting better all the time," said the woman to herself. She read herself the Paperwork Reduction Act. She swore an end to sugar at night. She would cross each covered bridge when she came to it.

She'd dreamt of a baby tangled in the blankets. The baby was singing bard songs in clear and steady Russian. The baby was also holding a mug of tea. "Don't spill the tea," she told the baby over and over. The baby smothered in the blankets. She would shake the dream. But she would also turn her life around, forgetting the man who said, "We cannot afford to keep you," and the other who said, "You went too far."

The chorus of ducks, geese and gulls in Prospect Park was like an orchestra warming up in the pit of her soul. She was an escaped ballerina, with a tear in her black legging, without photo ID on her person, without a purchase on the hardwood floor.