The rain arrives, cooling the steaming streets, calming your labored breaths. You wear lipstick to remind yourself that you are alive, brush your hair and look at the cars on the sidewalk, how no one sits in them during street sweeping hours like we used to in the East Village. Life is easier in the country, even if the country is only across the river. You find yourself wondering if the hard was what made you better. You've grown soft, now, all velvet skin and voluptuous curves when all you ever wanted were angles.
The streetsweeper doesn't show, anyway, rainy days mean perhaps the storm drains take care of the work for you. I've brought the geraniums in from the fire escape, their delicate petals shielded from the world. Soft. But soft with longer lifespans. There was a time when I used to tell stories of death and destruction but all I'm left with is children's literature, and with children you have to offer hope if you take something away.
No winter without spring, no death without new life, no sorrow without a hard-won joy.
They say we try to give ourselves the childhoods we ourselves did not have. You always were one for delivering your messages on the nose, but this seems a little obscene even for you. Look at your manuscript, turn it over in your hand.
See what kind of answers you are trying to give yourself.