Prognosis for the End of Winter

by Hilary McCreery, Contributor

I don’t know what to tell you about lately except that the graffiti on the murals at the Frolic Room make the painted caricatures seem sad and I was accidentally drunk, walking back to our apartment down Hollywood Boulevard when it occurred to me that this street and all of its counterparts and avenues finally feel like home. Six months of assimilation, of parts becoming whole, of maps recasting their diagonals from this new marker, which is an arrow exclaiming YOU ARE HERE.

Here, now, in conversation with the present. Currently I’m in motion, in a vortex of good faith and residual longing. I’m writing down all my favorite words in a turquoise moleskin journal, I’m heeding the warnings of rattlesnakes in Runyon Canyon, I’m paring down the effects of having spent four days in a foreign brick city.


Lately, I think of my friends in terms of bridesmaids. Please do not read into this anymore than I do.

Zarah sings into a voicemail message and Ev comes over to drink tea in my living room, promising me that despite distance and disaster, she’s still my best friend. My sister calls to tell me her dreams and I take comfort in her laugh, which is my laugh, perfectly replicated – a genetic whim. April cuts my bangs and says, “You’re always wearing something I admire.”

The way I love people best is to expect nothing from them. The implication being that they are free from my disappointment, the reach of which overextends itself, always. Sometimes I wonder if it is selfish to protect myself this way or if I am simply being fair. I look at the people I love most and never know.


My reflection in the mirror lately is ghost-like and flickering.

At the gym, I watch the digital miles accumulate and imagine I’m back on the Stanley Middle School field, hammering out each quarter mile loop. Enveloping soreness, my muscles taut from being forced back into motion. But what is a body if not an archive of movement, hunger, grace?


Suffice to say, the smallest efforts are amassing into something brazen and glowing. The dark matter surrounding my future is parting to reveal stars – which is to say, hope. My patience is the eye of a needle, this dark hope pulled as thin as it can go.

In conclusion, this prayer: Let the numbers reflect progress and the miles repeat themselves every day. Let the words imply symmetry and the syntax of the truth set me free.


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LANDFILLS is a grassroots literary, arts and culture online collective based in Chicago. All work is original, except the featured images that accompany text posts (which are blatantly stolen from Complaints should be directed to Po via Twitter.
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