June 3

A full moon over the East village, streets slick with rain and the regular interruption of police sirens circling the block, looking for illicit acts after curfew. Curfew. Summer arrived and we didn't have time to see it. My skin is sticky. A wedding is canceled across the sea. No one could have predicted a year such as this. I know so few things, but the ones I know now come into stark relief, arrive unapologetic in my heart. I'm doubling down on you, New York, this heart in me is useless if it beats anywhere else. The things you would save in a fire will always first be people, and don't think I don't know who makes that list.

I have only these two hands, America. I have only this one heart and a handful of years on this earth but I am not ignorant to the power of these truths, not ignorant to the miracle of having been given this breath to begin with. This pause is giving us a chance to think about who we are.

Who are we going to be, after?