Dawn

And then, at last, it turns. I woke in a fog, laced the running shoes despite myself, and let the mist push through my cells until it lifted over the bridges. A hurricane grows in the south, it rises the waters against the remaining pier pillars of the East River; I stared and stared at the waves as they crashed, my breaths heavy, my muscles screaming. By the time I stopped, my shirt clung to my skin but my mind soared. Drama swims past my timeline, but I got a moment's reprieve, I got a day of checked to do lists, a day of giggles and adventure, a day of hope. Remind yourself that you've never been a passive participant in your own life, she says. A book prints across the water with my name in it, but I don't need to move a single block to remember my name.

If I sit quietly, just for a moment, and wait, this city will whisper it to me again, and again, and again, until the day comes when I believe what it says.