By Jill Jupen
We lived on a dirt road that year
surrounded by Jersey cows,
beauty, and snow. Unimaginable
snow for the start of December.
The baby was five months old,
the best age until the next
best age came along.
You came through
the dark and falling snow
and, standing in the kitchen,
stamping the outdoors from your boots,
said, “Did you hear? Another hippie gone.”
I had heard and I hated
you for that as the baby
sat in his highchair eating Cheerios,
because I had cried off and on all day.
Nothing would ever be the same,
until one day it would be.
The news of what had happened
in the entrance of the amazing
building near the subway exit at
72nd Street and Central Park West
blew around the world like
an evil wind because we dared
to love a man we didn’t know.
When at 10:50 pm a nervous guy,
glistening with sweat and screaming
freak-spew, carrying “Double Fantasy”
under his arm and “The Catcher In the Rye”
in his back pocket, emptied his gun,
things changed. People began naming their
babies Dakota and reading the back
of albums trying to decide which song
was the right song, and how to trade
one life for another and how to stop
running in circles looking for a way
to continue to take it all so personally.
Jill Jupen lives in Vineyard Haven with her husband, many dogs, and lots of books.
