Freude

Summer sat thick on the streets of Manhattan in the morning, layered like grime in the subway stations and pushed ahead of trains to no relief. In Riverside Park, the trees played at suburbia, well-adjusted adults in outdated athleticwear power walking away the hours (the life?), and me, reminded again the blessings of the life I've built, no matter how withered it may look from the outside, in the neighborhoods where its rough edges do not meld with the current.

Later, I dragged my sticky skin and hydrated cotton wear into a small, freezing space in a non-descript building: on a desk stood small, colorful reminders of who the space belonged to, reminders that the last few weeks were only vacation, were only a blip in the radar from your regularly scheduled programming, that in fact you know exactly what you are doing and your rough edges are only right angles to fit into the framework you yourself have cobbled together. I take off my jewelry, breathe in cold, sterile air, indifferent to my thrashing. Ink seeps across blank pages, I forget the time, I forget how a minute ago I stood sweating on a Times Square subway platform and longed for rest. He looked at me across a table one night and said you are different now from a year ago, and I can't begin to tell him how much. Here's the thing.

One day I knew in my heart that there was an island that knew my name, one day I stood on its ridiculous, dirty, sweaty streets and understood what it meant to be home, one day I remained in its whirlwind and I knew love; don't you see, New York? Every day since I met you, I have tried to deserve this spot you held for me. Don't you see, New York? You took a chance on my poorly designed edges. I am only trying to pay you the dividends you have earned.