mke

I’ve already begun thinking of Milwaukee in the past tense, as a past life, like I live in reincarnations.

Somewhere in South Dakota or something, I’m already drawling out my life story.

“In a past life,” I begin, “I lived in Milwaukee. I spoke French and I worked with computers.” They look at me and wonder. I shrug.

I get off on the truth of it. I like to imagine the romance of my shitty life story.

“I grew up on a barrier island,” I say, and I am not lying. “I moved to DC when I was 17,” and now I am lying, but only a little, only by a matter of days, because 17 sounds better than 18. I talk indifferently about watching the Pentagon burn, about waiting to get shot in 2002.

I talk about myself like I am not myself, like each place I live I’m a different person. It’s relieving; I absolve myself so easily.

I picture myself — I paint myself so intriguing. Somebody asks me where I’m from and I give them a small smile and drop my eyes, I tell them nowhere. I tell them about my past lives and nothing is constant. Mostly I tell the truth but I lie, always.

The things around me are important; I exist as an accessory, as a scribe. The ice is important, the ocean and the lake. I make myself small, allowing space.

The city is perched on its yearly precipice, not quite come to life. It’s grey and skeletal, and this year it is so cold. I feel like I’m dancing some strange waltz: I want to leave, because I leave, but it feels like this spring is made for me, and it’s so hard to walk away.