Jacquline knirnschild

PLEASE COME TO BOSTON

It’s my 25th birthday and I just moved to Boston and I’m sitting alone on a park bench with three cannoli in a crisp white box. A gift from my new roommate, who left me for an anniversary dinner with my other new roommate, her husband. 

I place one cannolo on my lap. Powdered sugar sprinkles my jeans like dandruff. I brush it onto the ground and pigeons flock all around, nibbling. I think, oh great, I’m the bird lady now.

I bite into the crunchy shell and the fresh, creamy ricotta fills the hole in my chest, at least, if just, for a moment. Then it’s gone and I’m sure if I eat another, I’ll be sick. What to do with the other two?

I get up and approach an older couple chatting. I try not to feel like a preschooler offering a juice box.  

“Hi,” I say, “So, uhm I accidentally bought too many cannoli and—

“We’re not interested,” the man says. He turns away, toward the woman who wears a floral shirt.

“Oh, uh, okay,” I say.

I continue walking. I pass more couples, whom I avoid, then a homeless woman sprawled on a bench with a scraggly blanket and Styrofoam cup.

“Hello,” I say, “I have two extra cannoli—I was wondering if you might want them?”

Her face twists. “You nasty!” She yells and bats the cup at me. “You think I want your leftovers? You nasty!”

I skitter away, embarrassed, but somehow still determined not to let the sweet cannoli go to waste.

I spy two young guys who are wearing beanies and scrolling on their phones. I smirk, square my shoulders, and walk over.

“Hey, I have two extra cannoli—do y’all want them? If not, I’m just gonna throw them away.”

“As long as you promise you didn’t poison them,” one guy says.

I shake my head and laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound like a villainous cackle. I hand them the box and wait for them to talk more—ask where I got the cannoli, comment on the weather, give me some crunchy shell, however miniscule, to bite.

But they give me nothing.

So, I walk away. I step over the curb and look back at them. They are throwing the box in the trash.

I put in earbuds and listen to a song about a vagabond begging his beloved to please come to Boston and sell paintings on the sidewalk. Dave Loggins wrote the song on tour in 1972. The story was almost true, except that there wasn’t a beloved waiting for him back home. So, he made her up.  

He, like I, needed somebody to sing to, somebody to give cannoli to. Even if that somebody is only you, dear reader. Please take this. And, please, don’t throw it in the trash.

__________

JACQUELINE KNIRNSCHILD IS ORIGINALLY FROM NORTHEAST OHIO, BUT SHE HAS LIVED IN MANY PLACES AROUND THE WORLD. SHE HOLDS A B.A. IN ENGLISH FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF MISSISSIPPI, AND SOON, SHE WILL BEGIN STUDY FOR AN M.A. IN ENGLISH AT THE UNIVERSITY OF MAINE. HER POETRY, ESSAYS AND LITERARY CRITICISM APPEAR IN MORIA, NINTH LETTER, THE CLEVELAND REVIEW OF BOOKS AND ELSEWHERE. SHE IS THE POETRY EDITOR OF BTWN MAGAZINE. YOU CAN FIND HER ON TWITTER AND INSTAGRAM @JACQKNIRN.