Homeward Bound

Strange voices mingled outside my door, too early in the morning for guests but they walked confidently into the apartment and aaahed in nostalgia. This was the stoop where we had our first kiss, she says, and now we are celebrating out 40-year anniversary. She had lived here in the 60s, and how different the neighborhood then.

I walked home slowly through the west village today, spring in its most overwhelmingly beautiful essence. The streets buzz with people, but they are clean, coordinated. You drag your suitcase across the Bowery and feel calmed by its madness, at ease in the dirt it still retains. The Empire State Building gleams in the distance.

Six years ago you turned the corner on Morton street for the first time and knew, instantly, you were home. The cab ride east is ten dollars, with tip, and it feels like a whole new world. You put the last of your things in a bag (there's too many things, always too many things and you weigh a hundred pounds more just by owning them), rearrange the furniture until it looks like you were never there at all. Sleep one last, sound sleep in the little apartment with the teapots.

Tomorrow, adventure begins anew.