Winter is warm, impossibly mild. I sit in the kitchen with the window wide open, smoking slow drags into the quiet night. The neighbors across the courtyard have had a dinner party; they clear empty bottles from the terrace while the lanterns flicker and die. The Big Day is still ahead of them.
I spoke with the ghosts of Brooklyn past today, all snug and tipsy in a faraway land. I tell them nothing lasts forever, but he reminds me that I already said that once and it turned out to be wrong. Did I not pack my bags? Did I not return to the city that is my home to find that I sleep better at night, that I smile better in my heart? So lightly they tread their news grounds, unwilling to believe their circumstance. It may change yet. I still count my blessings louder when we're through.
You asked me if I'd thought about it, and I lied when I said I hadn't. It's all I can do not to hold my breath until passing out; it's all I can do to remember putting one foot in front of the other in the street. I suppose I fear admitting it, and finding I could just as well stay writhing on the ground.
A new year lies waiting.
Be the change you wish in others.
You know not yet where your steps may lead.
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