Strike

They call from across the oceans, happy spring voices fluttering around miles of deep despair. You wish there was something you could do. They wish the same for you. I sat in Tompkins Square Park in the sunlight and ran into an East Village relic, his creative halo making even the bums and the park rats glitter. I thought this is what New York does to you, and my steps were lighter all the way home.

It's been six years today since you lost your words, since we drove a hundred miles and hour across the valleys and he screamed your name at closed doors. There was a moment when you did not know who you were. It's hard to imagine a time before it now, but I've known you much longer and no hospital airlift can erase that from our bonds.

Life is precious, and short, and painful, and ridiculous.