BY JENNIFER FREYA HELGESON
Copyright is held by the author.
He sits on the patterned sofa,
a neon glitch in the morning grey,
wearing 1992 like a second skin —
that teal and purple windbreaker,
a rustle of nylon that sounds like cassettes
we used to rewind with pencils.
Thirty-nine now,
but the grin is still a jagged spark,
the thumb held up
against the weight of spreadsheets and standardized time.
He looks like he’s waiting for a bus
that only stops in the suburbs of memory.
If you saw him on the 8:15,
you’d think:
there goes a man who refused to let the colours fade.
A wall-jumper,
a secret-keeper,
a bright, loud static
in a world of muted tones.
***
Jennifer Freya Helgeson’s creative writing explores themes of memory, loss, nature, and human resilience. She holds a Ph.D. in environmental and developmental economics; she has authored several peer-reviewed publications, co-edited textbooks, and published in several media outlets. Jennifer has a poetry chapter book forthcoming (2027, Finishing Line Press). When she’s not writing, Jennifer enjoys gardening, dancing, and spending meaningful time with her loved ones. Follow her @jfhelgeson on Instagram and check out her work on jenniferfreyahelgeson.com.
I quite like this. Thank you.