Apex

The thing about storms is, they always pass. They always move on to some other green grass and leave you to wring out your socks and wonder what happened. The morning after it leaves, my body feels like the first day after a great illness is over, like I can taste the flavor of food again, like I can take deep breaths without an ache in my side and my skin no longer crawls when I touch it. The face in the mirror looks familiar.

The aftermath of a hurricane is always absence. The silence is a relief.

I walked down the west side, late season hues of oranges and pinks, the Hudson River glittering under clear skies and all the world like old friends. Turned in to remnants of rush hour traffic around the Lincoln Center and thought, I love every corner of this ridiculous city, as I stepped down Broadway and caught a train. 57 blocks south I unearthed on the same street and saw the Woolworth building anotheer 25 down, disappearing slowly under deep blue velvet twilight. I nodded in agreement with myself.

The relief of silence is a gift. The absence of illness, of the hurricane, is a brief moment to see your Self as open to filling only with that which you like. It's always there, even when you believe it's been drowned. If I can go to New York, live madly, and write, 

I will want for nothing.