Count Down

Cobblestoned corner on W 12th and W 4th, the wine bottle cold but the skin sticky hot. Summer in New York, a million cars parked at every intersection, clawing their ways out to greener pastures, to brand new tanlines. The dogs happily teetered around the tables, the night had an air of reckless abandon and summery revelry. Words of departure came and went; they were too surreal to believe.

My room changes shape. Piles come and go, rearrange themselves on shelves according to priorities. Fifty pounds plus carry-on. Choose your life. A week from now, who will you be? What words will remind you, what fabrics express you, does it matter at all in the end? Pack for adventure, pack for the leap. You will not know where you land, until you are brushing the dust off your skin.

You do not stop to look around. You do stop to mourn your loss. There is only next week, now.

There is only the leap.