My Cardboard Balcony

Adopt A Friend by Belinda Roddie If you drag your sneakers through the melted asphalt of Fifteenth Avenue, you'll find the Adopt-A-Friend Center riddled with wreaths from last Christmas and cheap gaudy white lights, with a sign too bright to be looked at by the human eye. When you go to the front desk, a twenty-something girl with a 'tude and nice boobs will ask for your name, age, social security number, and all your feeeeeeeeeeelings. Yeah. You want someone to swing on swings with? Nah, less seven-year-old bliss. Ice cream never gets old, though. Movie nights? Chugging pitchers of beer? Too bro? Nah, man. Maybe someone you can hold hands with without being called lovers. A shared smile. A cup of homebrewed coffee. A simple text message. A nod. A hug. Straightforward. Doesn't need the credentials of a hipster, or the potential to be a musical genius. You don't need smart, or strong, or brave. You just want someone you can find sitting a

"Higher!" I push. Her legs kick up in front of her like the tails of a curly-haired kite. She's all colors, all smiles. "Higher, Uncle Jerry! Higher!" She's streaming through the sunlight streaming through her hair, which is streaming out behind her. Her eyes are bluer than the sky. Her tongue pokes slightly out of her mouth as she laughs. After this, she'll ask for ice cream.