I wake with the Weight still deep in my chest, it chains me to the bed and makes friends with the hangover in my head. Drag it behind me out to the river, taking slow steps with raspy lungs and wondering what the point is. Underneath the Manhattan Bridge, I stopped, looked at the downtown skyline, and let everything settle along my spine. The cure for mortality is to leave a legacy, the city whispered to anyone who would listen. Have something to prove, then prove it.
When I came home, the newstickers flipped themselves into a frenzy, and the city so long under siege erupted into a festival of relief and gratitude in a heartbeat. I biked to Prospect Park and watched waves of cheering undulate across the sunny lawn. Biked to champagne toasts around the borough in a day no one wanted to end. At midnight, we stood by the fountain in Washington Square Park and marveled at the simple joy of relief. You are far away, now, and cannot see this. Do not know the joy in my eyes, the tremble of my heartstrings, life is cruel like that but I'm sure you are happy, too.
It's been a long, dark year. We are not out of these woods.
But getting a flashlight is a hell of a thing, when you've been stumbling blind.
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