Houston Street Subway stop and never any trains stopping on my track. Express trains rumble past, my heart vibrates in my chest. Too much time to stand still and think; why did I not bring a book? As though I got caught in this brief but unending wait, and I have nowhere left to run.
We are not safe anywhere. We cannot escape ourselves.
Just a few steps upstairs, the spring sun is warming the hearts of New Yorkers and concrete without discrimination. I could feel my back straightening, my steps getting longer as my legs stretched in the mild, still air. Yesterday, I turned on 62nd street and everything was quiet, save the birds. I thought it is here. Today, I remembered how bright sunlight reveals the dust in my kitchen, exposes every last hidden flaw.
In my dream last night, we were hanging off the edge of an impossibly tall building. I said Can you believe some people let go? The height was making my toes tingle, but before I knew it, we were in the subway car. Safe, grounded.
I had forgotten how sad spring can be, just at that moment when it stops being an impossibly bright and beautiful future and becomes the same Reality it always was. We cannot escape ourselves. The local train came, stopped, let me on, took me to Brooklyn. It didn't have the answer, either. But it didn't pretend to.
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