It is no secret that I spend hours upon

hours resting my hands on the surface

of this wooden desk every washed, schoolday afternoon,

engaging my pencil along the thinly lined notebook papers 

that line my mind as thinly as the thoughts upon

which I write them.

Today is nothing like any other day, with

the wind rattling the netting of the windows and

mingling with the rustling of yellowed leaves in

the neighbor’s stone driveway. There might even be a few 

small streaks of sunlight through the satin curtains that

reflect off my ceramic pencil holder and glint with

coolness under the bellies of navy clouds.

But that struggling sunlight is different today,

because it reminds me off the time I had gone to

visit my uncle, who had recently come on a business trip

to Boston. I remember us walking through the streets, you

smiling with your hands in your pockets as we took a picture under

the golden mist of sunshowers in Copley Square, a rainbow

forming placidly overhead. We even took a picture of the lively brownstones,

too, and when that was over, walked in the rain to the Public Gardens,

you with your waterproof hood along your shoulders, me

with my splattered umbrella propped up over my head—my

veiny hands raw from the thought of never returning to my wooden desk,

and the exclusive warmth of the inside world.