The light turned green and I wondered if I should take off. I was weaving through crowds of people, dodging taxis, running across the street in my too-high heels. Then I was finally there; standing outside the pizzeria, waiting for the revolving doors to stop spinning. I ran back to the car, wedged myself in the backseat and sat with the ridges of the passenger's seat digging into my knees and the A/C barely whirring and cut my slice of pizza into triangles, the tomato sauce seeping into the crevices left by the plastic knife and fork.
We were leaving in the next hour.
I watched as the GPS reloaded and the directions back to home slid onto the screen. And in that moment I couldn't tell you who I was. I was stuck in a half-world, wading between two different lives. I should have been used to it—it happened every time I started speeding into the future; I always got yanked headfirst back into the past. My head was pressed against the window, trying to photograph the sight with my eyes so that I never forgot.
Before I wasn't sure if there was a better life waiting for me in another city far away from here. I first started to pray for the future the summer I turned 12 and over time, I began to feel like I was sitting on a still sea, waiting for a swell that would never come. Six years later I'm praying for the changing tides, the swirls of faces, and the parade of shoes again.
I've been the eye of the hurricane and I've blazed cyclonically through the streets this summer and loved every moment of it.
My hope is not dead.