Brand New

I have dreamed about this city so long. I didn't even think it was real, somehow. And now, here I am; I don't know what to feel at all. 

We spend our days slowly meandering through the magical city, weaving through tourist attractions and secret back streets alike. I spout out historical tidbits at every turn, but I'm not sure they're why she came. Lower Manhattan spans majestically at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge; Central Park is lush, and warm, and winding, Greenwich Village is as ever titillating with its stories of poets past. No sugar-coating necessary, no grand elaborate setups. Whatever the lumbering masses demand, it provides. Whatever the shivering refugees need, will be there before they know to ask for it. We look up our forefathers in the Ellis Island registry, see their names handwritten into the old pages. Blue, Blond, speaks English, declared healthy of body and mind. Forty-eight dollars to their name. They came here hoping for a better life.

Did not we, too?

Presenting this city to one who has never seen it proves to be a treat. I rediscover the nooks and crannies I no longer see in the mad dash to get to work, get to life. Remember that I once wanted to run my fingers over every brick and every flaw in this entire city. Realize that I still do. Oh, New York, how you are the only thing in this heartbreaking world that ever made sense.

When I have trouble sleeping--and I do every night you know, she says as we lie in the dark in the cramped bedroom on Morton Street and let the day sink in, I imagine myself going to sleep in New York. 

Now that I am here, 
now that I am here,
I don't know what to dream
anymore.