It wasn't until I walked out the front door, Brooklyn quiet and sleeping, that the block reminded itself to me. Twelve years and change, a sweltering summer without air conditioning, a return to this city and enraptured disbelief that it was possible to come home. I fell in love with the bagel store around the corner, the Italian bakery up the street, the sound of the subway rumbling underneath. Everything is different now, the quiet confidence of my steps, the dimples in his cheeks, I don't recognize the block anymore until the soft fondness wraps itself inside my chest. I lived here once, I think, but I didn't know all the beautiful gifts to come.
The train back to the city is quick, dropping me in the East village like a whirlwind of youth and Friday night fumes. The heat is working again in the little shoebox on 6th street, the air is heady and my limbs ache in recognition. It seems a little trickle of life returns after all the long months of hibernation, but there is no telling what we are in for yet. I RSVP yes to someone else's offic holiday party, as she says "We have this narrow window again for some fun, enjoy the eggnog before you fall off the precipice" and it's like we both know just what we're saying. Gather ye rosebuds, the plague is with us still. I go to bed thinking of dimples, of familiar sidewalks, of what it means to believe in a future.
The gifts aren't all gone,
just because you cannot see them.
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