the Air Went Out

Winter took its icy grip on Manhattan. I turned a corner and my cheek was smattered with tiny icicles disguised as rain drops. Leaving behind the West Village Sunday night millings of people, I turned down Perry Street and thought how much smaller it is in real life than when you see her skip down the stoop steps in her impossibly high heels on television. Typical.

I walked to the west side, to the piers, where the buildings can no longer offer shelter from the storm, where narrow streets do not divide the wind and subdue it. Here is the dark, here is the wild untamed. The last shreds of a fiery orange sunset lit up the New Jersey skyline and the skyscraper lights began to twinkle. I stood at the very edge of the pier, where not even the late night runners bother to go, and I looked out over the black Hudson river waves, crashing and thrashing wildly, pretending to be free in the ocean. How cold the water seemed; I imagined falling and unsure if I would survive. Not sure if I would fight to. In such a collapsed star, does one not merely acquiesce and drift away?

Shifting my body a little, suddenly the wind hit me with full force. I teetered slightly, found my footing, and smiled. As though I were far out to sea, as though the city and its supposed civilization were elsewhere completely and there was only me and the gale. When the storm rages around me, the one within me calms. When outside forces push me around and do all the disturbing, I breathe quietly and am comfortable. I needn't stir. My heart sighed, and I let the rain prick my skin until my naked fingers were raw.

I turned around, and there was my city again, never failing to reappear as I open my eyes to it, never forgetting to welcome me home. I nestled my way back in through the nooks and crannies of the crooked streets, until I, safe and dry, reached the Morton street doorway and landed in that warm corner that is mine. Grateful to have a home. Blessed to belong.