They said there would be an ice storm. I woke up to glistening, frozen branches outside my window, but walked out to inches of cold, cold water all along Hudson Street. Miserable doesn't begin to cover it. The children stopped and played in every puddle between the swim lesson and the house. Their joy so contagious, I couldn't keep from dancing the last block myself.
I want this winter to be over. I always want winter to be over, but this year, it seems like such a continuous slap in the face.
Still, as I walked home from Hell's Kitchen last night, my back straight and my heels reassuringly even in their pace across the slippery streets, I couldn't help but feel happy about where I was. The grayer New York gets, the colder, the tougher, the dirtier, the more miserable, the more my heart paints curlicues and rainbows around its name. I miss Australia something fierce, the sun, the surf, the sweetness of the people and the ease of living, but this is my home.
This is my home.
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