Norouz

The night before, I lie giddy in bed attempting sleep. A full moon travels across the night sky. Dressed up kids flock to the synagogue nearby, a young girl tells us this is the synagogue for Purim and she looks like she knows what she’s talking about. A pink feather boa trails her. When morning arrives with droves of rain I think the city washes winter away. I pull out my mop, my latex gloves, I scrub every corner of the apartment and flood it with flowers instead. I drink champagne for breakfast. Piles of garbage and Salvation Army donations grow by the door, I am lighter, lighter, I am light. At the foot of a few objects, I hesitate. Out with the old, a voice whispers in my ear and I nod, yes, but I don’t want this to be old, that’s the problem. I fold the pieces back up, feel the weight in my chest again. I carry it like a dull ache through the days, wonder if I even remember who I am without it. 

In the morning I meditated so deeply I both laughed and cried in the same breath. Opened my eyes to see New York brick greet me, to see streets and lights and buildings and sounds that tell me I’m home. I felt sunshine explode within me and every cell in my body tingle. 

We may be limping. 

But by god, we made it out alive.