Early mornings on First avenue are strange aliens scenes of the east village, wide streets empty, a quiet peace to the November sunshine. I pick her up from the train and we sail through an empty Holland tunnel, only to get lost on the New Jersey turnpike in the next breath. Philadelphia appears like a little spaceship on the foliaged horizon, by now I know the last of the way and everything isn’t as fraught anymore in the greetings.
We go to bed late, the neighborhood quiet, the dogs nervous. It feels like all those trips of our youth, weekends of sweatpants and hair braiding, the comforts of unconditional relationships years in the making, and I think some things need time.
Maybe more things than we realize.
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