Coney Island baby

The sweltering heat returns, all sunshine and humid air and the breeze like a hair dryer. Memorial Day passed quietly in the Village when all the rich folks were away in their summer houses, and we moved out onto the stoop with our cold beers and fluffy dog, it was perfect, like it always was. 

We take the train out to Coney Island, an empty air conditioned car and perhaps the kids are all still in school, and the suits are back at work, and the boardwalk feels like a whole other country. Wish you were here. We bought post cards yesterday. I've been meaning to send them one for months. The air smells like sun screen. All I want is to live like this forever with endless ocean horizon and freedom, but I don't know how I'll ever let go of Manhattan to do it. 

Showing her New York for the first time revives my love for it, makes it sparkle again like it always did. Stories resurface, begin to write themselves in the back of my spine and I don't know how I could have doubted them, as I did. 

It occurs to me that love runs two ways. So that when I doubted, all was not lost.