Philadelphia

by Sophia Nardone

I remember the night before Philly.
I drove over a little too fast,
and waited outside a little too long so you wouldn’t notice.
Because I was always rushing for you
when you were trudging behind me.

To my small self of 16,
I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my summer days
but with you.
By summer days I mean nights,
and by nights I mean anytime after 10,
or sometimes one a.m.,
you know,
the times that you would call me.

I remember helping you pack for college; the day seemed lonely
and you seemed free.
Your clothes piled on top of boxes that would never be able to hold them.
But somehow you still managed to leave.

“So I’ll see you over break, I guess,” was all you had to say.
And somehow your stark simplicity justified my ways.
I only felt the insincerity of that brief phrase as I sat alone over break.
It played in my head as I pictured my hand hitting your face.

I don’t have time for guessing.

And I most definitely can sew up the time I left open for you.

You seemed so beautiful in the summer,
but maybe it was just the shine of the sun.
I felt alive driving to your house,
but maybe it was just the adventure of our run.

I realize now who I was to you.
It took five months, cities away and laughs so few.
But I was your designated driver,
your friend when you needed one,
your nap when you were tired.
Your ground to get high,
you pushed me down so you could fly.
I was your help-me-pack-for-college friend,
your, “Yo, grab me and Connor,” friend.
Your hungover coffee,
your fill in at tables set for two.
And now from Philadelphia,
I mean nothing to you.