Photo by Steven B. Cherry

Back when ferndale wasn't ferndale at all but our white trash playground; just a giant trailer park with vacant dry cleaners and Mexican joint tip jars.

I stole one.
I blamed it on david.
He started laughing as the counter girl called us fucking cunts and we swished and shimmied out into the January night as i'm whining in my kid voice about getting my mittens on. Faire Isle, the best;

‘I can only find one fuckin mitten where the fucks the other-’ ‘Danielle come the fuck on we gotta go’ ‘Im...not...leaving without, my, fucking MITTEN’

I'm actually roaring at this point and the silence of the street stops me and i look down at myself with one mitten and crumpled up one dollar tip bills in my gross arctic hands and i smile at that momentum shift.

Like codas.

Whoever has that anymore? When everything tilts slightly and waltzes past like a confetti drop or an aria from a time we never knew.

We used to have those; we used to have codas all the time.

Like looking up into the falling snow underneath a streetlight, Michigan winters...maybe our car got stuck in frost while we were in the bar and we’re stumbling around and he picks me up for a piggy back and my mouth is WIDE smiling for real like a little kid going down the big slide at the park and we probably twirl and golden hair mixes with snow on the shoulder of his army coat and it's so goddamn gorgeous and we finally get the doors unlocked and crank the heat that won't work for another 15 minutes and we turn on the radio and it's “she belongs to me” and he looks at me and sings;

For Halloween buy her a trumpet
And for Christmas, give it a drum.

And he means it. You are this dizzying fiend but in the glow of the car interior you’re an angel.

Photo Credit: Steven B. Cherry