Precipitate

I'm a terrible liar. I suppose that's a good quality. I suppose this quarantine reduces us to our most basic tenets, strips our DNA of its fuzz and displays us how we truly are. I am nothing if I cannot bring you joy. I called my mother halfway across the bridge, these walks along bridges such a metaphor in a strange time when we think we can go nowhere but actually our reach spans across the ocean if only we want it. I tell my mother I am happy, and in that silent moment I hear all her pieces line up and rest. I am overcome with gratitude, but I do not tell her that.

We walked past the old pasta factory yesterday, mild sunny Sunday afternoon like nothing was different except they let you take your drinks to go (so we did). The greatest luxury now, is a conversation that doesn't revolve around how the world is in shatters: a short anecdote on the sunny side of Grand Street about 8th grade art, a delightful squeal in the park near Union Pool about the simple pleasure of a good chicken sandwich, a short sweet breath of sparkling river by a house where you think one day you might like to live.

Things aren't so bad, you know. They are different, and scary, and the future looks painfully grim, even at a distance. But you have sunshine, you have people whom you would follow across the rivers, you have New York, which beats in you with magic even when it is brought to its knees. Better things will come out of this.

Everything burns. It's what comes out of the ashes that matters.