Hosianna

Illness rages through me, my body on fire and my eyes only able to see a foot ahead. Words lie silent, what could they have to say? A ridiculous year lies behind you, you will remember always the death toll, literal and otherwise, but it's nearing its end. I read a book about New York on the plane and nearly cried.

Some things have not died. They beat in your heart strong as ever. You remember that, too.

Christmas Day

You spend a few days in twisted agony, in swirling down an inevitable rabbit hole and gasping for air at every turn. The days are warm and the nights freeze you right to the bone, it's hard to remember which way is up. Christmas Day arrives and Second Avenue is deserted in the early morning. I turn on the Christmas tree lights and make a cup of coffee before remembering my own name but it returns eventually.

Late in the afternoon, much later than planned but better than never, I finally make my way outside to find New York alive, well, and bustling despite itself. At the summit of Williamsburg bridge, the sun begins to set over the Statue of Liberty, hoards of people gather, stopping their runs or hopping off their fixie bikes to capture it on their respective apps, but I can barely hear them.

Because when I despair, does the city not come straight to my aid? When I falter, does it not pick me up in the most beautiful ways? A deep orange lays on the Empire State Building, the Chrysler dazzles on fire. Puzzle pieces of Brooklyn skylines stack themselves around the horizon. I forget all things, so easily I stumble, but there is one conviction in which I never waver. New York City is home in a way that my soul never was on its own, it sates me and fills me and lets me love when I don't think I know what love is. I am not right, without it, but in its arms I want for nothing.

The sun sets eventually, the balmy afternoon giving way to winter winds, and the crowds disperse. I pick myself back up, breathing now in a way I haven't for weeks, months maybe. Who needs poetry when there is this place?

Who needs anything else, at all?

17th and 5th

I crossed 5th avenue today just before sunset, Friday afternoon busy with holiday shoppers and angry taxi cabs as per usual, but halfway across the avenue I looked south to Greenwich village and a freedom tower spire at the end of the island, and the afternoon sun hit the high buildings with such a fire, and carved their shapes into such sharp contours, and I looked north to see a massive Empire State Building firm and steady on its block, and for a split second I lost my breath and remembered that I have never seen a more beautiful sight.

A piece of me perpetually lives on that crosswalk. The rest of me lives on blissfully, merely knowing it exists.

For Now

A couple breaks up next to our table at breakfast. Sunny, mild Sunday morning in the East Village and she cries into the remains of her kale salad. His plate is clean, his face looks bothered that this isn't over yet. They split the check; I want to tell her to leave and stick him with the bill, but she is feigning civility. The space is small; everyone knows what is going on. It's not even noon.

I went for a long run, later, as dusk was settling in and Brooklyn was going dark across the water. I thought how this city is mine, how it continues to live and breathe in me day after day and what a blessing that is. What a terrible abyss if it no longer should be. My steps were lighter at the reminder.

We are not out of the woods.
But we are in them, together.