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She’d sleep under trees in Central Park using rust colored leaves as blankets. The dreams she had. Thoughts of leaving and never coming back to this earth; going on to make her home in the heavens.

Policemen and park security would pass her by in the midnight hours. A whole city lit up and alive surrounded her dark space; she paid no attention.

Columbus Circle with horse carriages carrying tourists around the park. Browns and greens with golds spill onto the pavement. The cleaning crews take it all away. The leaves, hot dog wrappers, twelve ounce cups, the dirt of the city being taken away while she dreams.

This girl thought New York was her home. Same as Cleveland, Philly, New Haven, the list goes on, realising there is no home in America when you’re broken. When you’re filthy and spat upon. All the days become as one. And her dreams of flying away o Lord become more and more real.

It is not the country she grew up in up on daddy’s shoulders watching parades go by on hot summer days. She is no longer able to smile at marching bands and clowns. This is not what she wanted. Or, is it?

Freedom. That’s what she always wanted. Thought she’d found it in Central Park. Believed her hours could be spent in beauty. She forgot about winter. She forgot about darkness. She just dreamed of home. And, soon she’d be there.

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