August races ahead, summer drawing to a close and the spectre of an unprecented fall looming on the horizon. My skin is pale, still, no salt lingering on my brow like I have come to expect. I meet a friend in Tompkins Square Park, her family hasn't left the house since March and I see her sanity circle the drain. It's nice out here, she says, as spontaneous dance parties emerge and musical trios rehearse beside us. I nod. People talk of leaving and I don't quite know how to relate. The evening winds feel like fall now, but I think our love is deep in its richest summer throes, producing all manner of ripe fruit despite the storms and droughts and unforeseen locust plagues. We may be beaten down, New York, but I will lean on you and you will lean on me and won't we be that much stronger when we get out on the other side?
We will get out on the other side.
We have no idea yet what wonders await us there.
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