I am the daughter of a remote coder.
Tethered to Burnet, Texas—no pavement, no skyline.
Never having set foot in any city.
So what was it like, living downtown?
A hypothetical. I did all I could to become her,
slipping into her silhouette.
I grasp an imaginary wheel
in my left hand,
eyes angled upward in awe,
rolling past silo-like skyscrapers.
Neon wrappers, shredded tire rubber,
wilting wildflowers—
the pavement glows beneath me.
I purr like a cat with my engine.
Isn't the city beautiful?
I press a palm to my cheek
as Reunion Tower (as I've seen on TV)—
rises as pawn, a spiracle of an ant.
I flicker like a glowworm under its lights.
Until darkness grazes me, a creeping sadness.
I trudge to the barn—my make-believe gas station—
to fill up. As the gas seeps,
Running mental diagnostics on my gloom,
I find nothing—
my skin prickles with restlessness.
"It's not healthy to stay angry," Ma warns,
but I'm all tailspin, all venom.
The pig slough stings my nose like a taser;
I want to slam my skull against the barn's rot.
Something has to change.
Maybe another cat to calm the storms.
I keep crawling through my imaginary city
until the real, dimly lit office reclaims me.
Alone, in Burnet.
For a decade, I've stayed pinned here,
a tidy hypothetical, a well-worn lie.
I log into my VM,
watch the tests spin:
Everything's green—
Minus one elusive check.
