The country hangs in a balance upside down. You don't know how to hold on except to walk these same streets up and down, cross at the usual corner, see the usual sights. We look through old pictures and try to remember the world in April, but it is impossible to recall how otherworldly the world, impossible to feel again that which blossomed in ice.
We meet again in a new year, the puppy grown and the Christmas tree still up, twelve years in the making and this family still weaves itself into new decades, still sits firm in the West Village streets where it first spired.
The year seems impossible ahead, but that doesn't change anything.
It will still arrive. It will still pass through you.
Might you not as well pass through it
in return?
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