I wake in the middle of the night with a start, my hand along the riser and the heat cycling on. Early in the morning, feeling the lingering pain along my finger and not sure if it was all a dream. There's a metaphor for life in there, somewhere.
New York thrashes in the changing seasons. I sweat in wool jackets and freeze in bare legs, each new day a polar opposite of the last, but damn if the sunny days don't blow your mind after all. My sister comes to town -- after a week of casual togetherness, we get caught in traffic on our way to Penn, and we say our goodbyes in mere seconds before the train doors close.
Next time we see each other, everything will be different, she says, but nothing is ever the same.
You never step on the same street twice, and the certainty of uncertainty reassures you. There's a metaphor in that, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment