Time

The time capsule I kept in my closet until my 20th birthday held:

A dirty rubber band,
A penny, and 
A Lisa Frank notebook the size of a postage stamp.

I hid it in the depths of my closet,
wedged between shoes
and beneath rows of dresses
and declared,
face proud,
that I’d slip fingers beneath the lid
and tug
when I was that distant 20
or when the currency changed –
“Whichever came first,” I said.
And I’m not sure why
I figured that my
coins would be relics in
ten years, but then
my father had a handful of          
Indian-head pennies
in his own time capsule
called the basement
and I could put two and two
together.     

I included a note,
and pressing down heavy
wrote:

“Dear Finder,
Will there be space cities?
Everybody’s asking.”

In my mind, I was everybody,
and the world was as big as
my backyard so I
sealed the envelope with
a careful tongue and
moved on.

In those days we
jumped rope and
skinned knees.
One summer I lay by the pool
and hung my arms in the sky
like I was suspended belly-down
above the earth
instead of flat on my towel.
And I, waving hands like birds,
got stung by a passing bee
who thought I was out to
take her place.

Most nights I dreamed of flying.
I’d sting anyone who tried to
push me from the air and so I
cried when the little body lost
its buzz and fell, earthbound.

I tangled my fingers in
smooth neon pens and
wrote stories in Lisa Frank notebooks,
collected wishes from fountains and
snapped rubber bands at my sister,
jumped rope and
skinned knees
and dreamed of flying.
If space cities were homes of the future I
wanted to know what it was
not to be grounded,
lose my tie to the soil and
let go the tokens at the back of my closet,
place my copper Lincolns beside
Indian heads and
move on.