14th and 8th

Twice today I climbed the stairs at the 14th street station. At six in the morning, my eyes so heavy, my bags so light, I took the long way home to remind myself I was back in New York. West 4th street lay quiet, so quiet, it smelled of summer blooms and humidity, and only the strange creatures were out. Tonight I walked down Hudson, past the White Horse, with such loud music in my ears and I felt my heart beat quickly with gratitude over the life I have.

How does it feel to be leaving New York, she asked, but I had no answer. The question has been miles from my mind for so long now, this past week an eternity in length and my silly woes set in perspective against the frailty of life. But now that I am here, now that the minutes remaining are so few, I panic. This, my city, my home, and soon it is no more. Or, soon I am no more in it.

I walked under the Williamsburg Bridge and the world was bathed in that odd glow that comes when the sky is thick with clouds and the City's lights bounce off its ceiling. This is home, I thought, and took the long way back to the Village.

We only have this one life. It is unbearably short and wickedly unreliable.

I am glad, somewhere in it, there was you.