“It is cold, but there is sun. Bob Dylan and I drive through dead trees and I point out personal landmarks that make this Not Just Any Neighborhood. This is where I got my first kiss; this is where I worked that summer; this is where I went to school.
There’s the hospital where I was born. Small and curled like a comma, smears of mustard colored hair, there’s the hospital where I was born. My brother was at home on the stoop, passing out candy cigarettes to the other six-year-olds.
My car rattles on an overpass. Under Bob Dylan and I sweep the arms of the turnpike. Over our left shoulders, north of the city, nothing.”
—
“North of,” by Marie-Helene Bertino. Vol. 1, No. 3 of Recommend Reading.
Under Bob Dylan and I sweep the arms of the turnpike. There’s something romantic about the sweep of that sentence. I really enjoyed this piece.
