Sunday, July 20, 2014

Fire in my hands

Hi all! I'm a 23 year-old-reporter writing about technology for Business Insider.
I've been living in New York City for less than a year but I'm already head-over-heels for it and I thought about writing out all the reasons why but then I decided to just list some of the things that I have written down in the "Beauty" note on my phone:

A man playing Amazing Grace on the bagpipes in the subway of Grand Central Station 
Spilled gold glitter nail polish on the dark tiles of the Port Authority bus station floor, that you notice every time you're there
Cheek kisses from subway strangers, paired with the advice that you should drink bitters for hiccups
"You are a blurry young person"
Coming home tipsy on a Tuesday night helps you remember how much helps you remember how much you love new york city — when the wind ruffles your hair in the subway as you feel the train approach and when you get on your car and it's eight nine ten eleven two o'clock and people are still laughing all around you and talking about their day or their latest lover and you can't help but feel oh so deliciously alive.
The man on the subway with his gray scruff and wrinkled hands handing a mango and a fat pear to the homeless man limping through the train asking for "food and water." "please spare your food and water." as the plastic bottles get passed and the fruit changes hands your heart can't help but warming. 

Aaaaand now one of my favorite poems:

Oranges by Gary Soto 

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted -
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickle in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn’t say anything.
I took the nickle from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady’s eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl’s hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.


Jillian D'Onfro
Jillianilesdonfro[AT]gmail.com
Sunnyside, Queens, New York City

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