The baby cried at seven-thirty. Her mother passed me, told me to sleep a little longer. Jet lagged weariness gave me another few hours, I woke thinking there is nothing sweeter than good sleep and longed for more. But in the dark night, in the old apartment, at the end of all the travels, my eyes are wide awake.
It begins now. Life. It begins, again, now. You commit to a city, to employment, to apartment hunting and social spider webs. You commit to a spring that has to come, eventually, and to looking ahead when it's much sweeter to look behind. You cling to that smile in your pocket, like a talisman you rub nervously, pray it will carry you through the rough spots.
Life begins every day.
It's just a little more obvious, today.
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