Starur

I'd rather we didn't have those sunny days first, tricking us into believing it was spring, she says, as the heavy snowflakes smatter against the ground. The air is freezing, but you are unperturbed. You know March requires seven starur, seven winter storms after the starlings arrive, seven heartbreaks before you've earned the breath in your lungs again. 

I know it requires making it to April 1st,  to really be on the safe side. 

I'm looking at house sits in the English countryside for June, looking at Stockholm rentals for July and warm West Coast cliffs for August. I'm looking at cramped Manhattan nooks for fall and sweet spring evenings for May. 

I know there was a time when I wanted 
to die
when I couldn't imagine living day in
and day out
of this existence, and I said to myself
like I could will it to be true 
it is the illness speaking

and the thing is
it was.

Spire

The day after whirlwinds are so simple in their clarity, so light in their stillness. There's nothing earth-shattering to their insight, they just wait by the foot of your bed, unassuming. You wake with air in your lungs, as if you'd found a part of yourself you'd forgotten. You've felt joy before, you remember it now, it wasn't always a struggle to feel purpose. How New York can feel easy, obvious, how with the right spark plug it doesn't have to be so much work. 

You don't know how to make the right concoction, how to align the stars so the magic happens. But it's good to be reminded that they can make it happen all on their own. 

All you have to do is stick around long enough
to let them.  

Re:vive

In an instant, it’s like no time has passed. Like none of the months and years and silences existed. You talk a mile a minute, threads of conversations juggled like balls of yarn between us. Running to the restaurant just as it closes, sweet talking the server into letting us order, we don’t need menus, I pile dollar bills into a mountain of tip in gratitude. When we leave, it starts to rain, but we are unfazed, New York looks out for us. New York always looked out for us, it sensed the electricity, knew all it had to do was feed it. We stumble into port authority, this cesspool of city grit and even that looks like an amusement park, a place created just for our whims. 

I knew that fateful day that it wasn’t the end, knew that there was something worth holding onto despite the weight in my chest. Told myself not to throw the baby out with the bath water and I was right. 

Sometimes the reminders come just when we need them. 

Saved

The Monday bartender greets you with her typical mix of disdain and appreciation, a relationship years in the making that forever teeters between the familiar and the tentative, you take careful steps toward etching yourself into the hardwood floor. Do you remember that bar on 23rd street, those late nights on sawdust floors, those last ritual Budweiser bottles, a whole life wrapped around its quiet existence? I have nothing but gratitude for it now, you know, but I can't go back there without you, can't build another existence from its ashes. New York turns a page with every new life you live and there's no rewind button, the streets look different each time you walk them and isn't that what your impatient heart wanted all along? Careful what you wish for, echoes across your brow but you made this bed, no one else. 

I sleep better than I thought I could. 

Tossing and turning but I wake,
rested.  

DST

War rages on, is it your war now that you've joined the side of the Righteous? Do you take on the sins of the father when you marry the son? The questions are too big to consider yet, you scrub the shelves in your fridge instead and hold out for Daylight Saving time in the morning. Spring forward. Spring forward. 

If you say it enough it sounds like an oath. 

Welcome

In a moment, everything changes. A letter of acceptance, a door opening. This wasn't how you thought this life would go, but can't that be said for anything. You look back at the winding paths behind you, how each jump, each stumble led you here. There's no explaining it, and perhaps you shouldn't try. She asks you about books and you find yourself tingle, find your eyes light up to get all the words out as fast as you can. There's something there. 

There's something there.

America, I've given you all, and now here we are. America, we didn't always choose each other but we always came back. It's a strange, dark time to hold ceremony, but perhaps that's exactly why we should do it. 

Perhaps the darkness is not what makes us human
but celebrations in the face it.

Lift the Damn Thing

An icy rain smatters across the windowsills, each drop landing like nails on the surface. Of course it hurts for buds to burst. You cling to promises of spring but wake in anxiety and you don't know why. I dreamed you were near, and now you are not. Perhaps that is why. Perhaps love is why we ache, and is why we hesitate. He writes to say, don't come to England, it's to hard being poor here, and you wonder if he knows what it is to be poor in New York. Lateral moves, you think, and wonder what the point is to any of it. 

The bartender brings you snacks, buys you a beer, leaves you alone to your work. 

Of course it hurts for buds to burst.  That's why you hesitate. 

Until you don't.