The Distance from Winter to Spring
Emma Hardison
There were exactly three feet between the houses on Rosenberg Street
When I opened my hands wide enough, they were sunflowers
So I sat in the grass of the fourth house, the one that used to be blue but the old woman moved in and painted it pink
She opened the door, ripped up cottonball hair and a cardigan with stains that you avoid looking at directly so she doesn’t see that you noticed them
What in god’s name are you doing on my lawn? she shouted
I thought it could use a little color, so I planted some flowers, I answered
My naked toes were clusters of clovers and my shoulder blades were a nice place for vines to grow
She didn’t ask me to leave, but her mouth made the shape of the bridge I bike over to get to school every morning
I put on my socks and rolled my fingers into my palms
And walked down to Brooklyn Street
The sidewalk remained dirty and the shadows from the buildings prevented the snow from melting
It looked like desk jobs and infomercials
But the grey ice contrasted well with the chips of green polish on my nails
It looked like Ireland and vintage thrift shops
I watched myself run in the glass windows
And threw back my head so my hair became a flag whipping behind me
My pale purple winter jacket melting against my bright red summer cheeks
There was approximately one foot between the buses on Park Boulevard
If the man in the brown pants sighed heavily enough, he would break through the concrete and sink into the soil
I got on the second bus, nestling into the tin can seat and hanging my head so the magnolia on my neck could get some light
You okay, lady? a kid asked, tapping my arm curiously
I laughed because I wasn’t that much older than him and said, I’m okay. Want a flower?
His spilled coffee freckles blurred as he nodded
I plucked a daisy from between my fingers and dropped it onto his lap
When I opened my hands wide enough, they were sunflowers
So I sat in the grass of the fourth house, the one that used to be blue but the old woman moved in and painted it pink
She opened the door, ripped up cottonball hair and a cardigan with stains that you avoid looking at directly so she doesn’t see that you noticed them
What in god’s name are you doing on my lawn? she shouted
I thought it could use a little color, so I planted some flowers, I answered
My naked toes were clusters of clovers and my shoulder blades were a nice place for vines to grow
She didn’t ask me to leave, but her mouth made the shape of the bridge I bike over to get to school every morning
I put on my socks and rolled my fingers into my palms
And walked down to Brooklyn Street
The sidewalk remained dirty and the shadows from the buildings prevented the snow from melting
It looked like desk jobs and infomercials
But the grey ice contrasted well with the chips of green polish on my nails
It looked like Ireland and vintage thrift shops
I watched myself run in the glass windows
And threw back my head so my hair became a flag whipping behind me
My pale purple winter jacket melting against my bright red summer cheeks
There was approximately one foot between the buses on Park Boulevard
If the man in the brown pants sighed heavily enough, he would break through the concrete and sink into the soil
I got on the second bus, nestling into the tin can seat and hanging my head so the magnolia on my neck could get some light
You okay, lady? a kid asked, tapping my arm curiously
I laughed because I wasn’t that much older than him and said, I’m okay. Want a flower?
His spilled coffee freckles blurred as he nodded
I plucked a daisy from between my fingers and dropped it onto his lap
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