waiting for the light to change

Clipping these fingernails. I'll cut my hair soon. Then I'll throw them out. Pieces of me going to a landfill that I'll never see. Pieces of me. Out there. Somewhere.
I need to go to the grocery store. With clipped fingernails and freshly cut hair I feel good and clean and safe. Just another soul moving through aisles lined with products the color of rainbows. Yes, this is what I should be doing. Being a consumer. At the point of transaction I will hand my cash to the lady and she will give me my change. Yes. Clean and orderly. Like my fingernails and hair.
In my metallic shell (with wheels) I drive back home. At this traffic light, a late 90s blue Ford Taurus is in front of me waiting for the light to change.
Lady Violet drove a car just like that. I wonder, where is she these days? I'll see if I can get a look...Make sure it isn't her.
P A U S E
No. Of course not. Even if it was I wouldn't know what to do or what to say. She'd probably be freaked out anyway.
"You can't rekindle a dead log, son, so move on. Just move on," dad used to say.
Sounds so simple. But it isn't.

I remember driving to her apartment many years ago. It was July 4 and the rockets were puncturing the heavens. Such beautiful explosions of the Heart. All those colors. The flames. The sacred ash.
But she wasn't there. I never found out where she was that night. I found the letter, though. Tucked under one of my windshield wiper blades. Like razor blades slicing my clean, meaty heart.
"Blah blah it isn't working blah blah it's better this way blah blah some hearts are doomed to run like rabid dogs in the night blah blah..."
I remember looking through that windshield with her. Gazing at the black interstate racing under the wheels at 70 miles per hour. So fast yet so slow. We'd listen to music that we both liked.
"Where were you the first time you heard this song?" she loved to ask me with eyes filled with anxious anticipation.
It's like she was just hanging there, you know? Like she couldn't wait to hear the first sound from my lips.
My left hand on the steering wheel. Guiding us through the night and stars. My right hand in her left hand (small and warm).
"You need to cut your fingernails, babe. They're getting loooong," she said playfully.

Yeah, I feel good with my freshly cut fingernails. I feel safe.
The clippings go to a landfill somewhere. Pieces of me out there. Maybe I shouldn't dispose of them anymore. I don't like the thought of pieces of me being out there...Hanging out there...For someone to grab...For someone.


mc