I remember walking over a railroad bridge near Interstate 610 in Houston.
It was the middle of summer and I was breathing exhaust and humidity.
Sweating and afraid, I looked down and saw a fifty foot drop to a dry stream
bed.
Traffic crawled along the highway towards the rice towers that were being
demolished.
The sun disappeared behind the towers and I realized it would never set that
way again:
These towers eclipsing the sun in early evening, seen from a railroad bridge in
August,
Me crossing that awful bridge for the last time, grumbling and wanting to move
back East.
I don't miss it. I wasn't happy being on Earth in the end and I couldn't wait
to leave Texas.
Paradise is a lot like Paris, I thought the first few millennia, and dead
Parisians agreed.
The place is crammed with art, like a 19th century museum. The streets are
always clean
And people are so friendly, but the angels have their ways of making you feel
uneasy,
Even when they're being polite. Take your time, they say, because
time is all there is.
Originally appeared inThe Journal.
© 1997 Patrick Martin
Audio Reading:
© by Patrick Martin. All rights reserved. No duplication in any print or electronic format is permitted without express permission from the author.
Windows Media Player