Winter comes, at last, the little tenement apartment takes its century old cracks and twists itself around the polar winds. I find a parking spot around the corner from the apartment, spend the street sweeping hour chatting up unknown neighbors and thinking New York still holds a little magic, after all. My muscles creak with unexpected use, I stretch my legs along the river and smile into the sunshine. There is hope yet. We end the evening on that irresistible block on west 4th street, three bourbons in, heat lamps beaming above our heads. This year has twisted everything around, has beaten you to the ground, but you are still human, after all, you still can delight in the little gifts the Universe can afford. When I wake in the morning, before dawn, the living room hums with colored lights, with twinkling stars in the windows. We all hurt, now, we all hurt.
But we can stretch these muscles,
and build something new from their pain.
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