I wish for a place with gray hallways and long wooden shelves. On the shelves there are picture frames, some empty. There is a picture of a young ballerina in a pink tutu. She is my sister at six, before she turned suicidal. Scattered among the frames are possessions lost and broken years ago: a metal necklace strung with hard blue cord, a letter from a friend before she moved to New Delhi. An unredeemed ticket for Spiderman 2 at the Route 4 cineplex, where I waited in the rain for a girl who didn't come. A ticket stub for Black Hawk Down, when I waited for one who did.
This is a place I dreamed of once, a few years ago.
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