Jar of Regrets

Once I placed all the sand from Center Island Beach

into a tiny Ziploc bag, then my god sister Dina

spread cream cheese and honey on Breton crackers

at half past two in the morning

and we all got up out of bed to talk until dawn.

I tool the airplane alone

at sixteen and spent my days

on others’ schedules and landslides.

It was warm and humid in the city.

We took subways all the way into Queens

and Flushing, disregarding cigarette butts

in alleyways. I still feel impressed with

graffiti and shoulder pads. My crazy Aunt Eleni

drove like a mad woman up and down Fifth Avenue

honking and calling everyone a malaka

god rest her sweet soul, she must have been

an angel to take care of all of us crazy teenagers.

There was a jar of regrets on her nightstand

it held some shells

from Cape Cod when my parents

and she and my uncle went on their honeymoon.

It was a double wedding, she laughed, we rented

our gowns, your mom and I.

We took a taxi ride. None of our parents

were here, we were free.

I have this jar of tiny rocks and gems

I collected  from

Santorini. It means that regrets

live,

have a time span,

can remain static,

or you can take them out

look at them

feel them

lock them back up again

where they have no air to breathe.

 

 

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