May bursts into your eardrums like fireworks, washes the dark corners of your winter realms and covers your every windowsill with the scent of lilacs. There's a certain feel of the wind against your cheeks as you fly down the Williamsburg bridge toward Manhattan, the jumble of its skyline spreading out before you and below the river unruffled, and that feeling sits in your every step now, your every word. I'm sorry I haven't written, for a moment I was busy being alive.
We spend the weekend discovering each other's stories, whispering secrets in parking garages and sharing exasperations over margaritas: life returns, and with it, so do we. Sixth street is a cacophony of pent-up hope, I cannot be angry even as the glee seeps in through my window and wakes me. We close the door to the old apartment for the last time, and suddenly six years are bookended without a drop of blood. I drop her at their new home, all skyscrapers and Working Girl soundtracks, make my way back to the FDR and fly along the east side in a flood of sunshine. I go home.
There was so much sorrow this year, so much impossible tragedy and devastating quicksand. But when the light returns, and trust me my darling, it is returning, those of us who remain will step blinking into the day, will bookend that which has been and embrace again the things that make us human: joy, and an unquenchable thirst for hope.
May is here now, my darling, we are here. It's been a long cold lonely winter.
But it is over.
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