Days pass from under my feet, like rugs swept in anger, like time isn't mine to hold, to mold, to paint like I had come to believe I could. I sit in my car waiting for the streetsweeper and watch a preschool class walk by, all bouncing steps and silly songs, and I think I left a whole life behind me in a pandemic and never stopped to say goodbye. It's been over two years since the ground fell out from under us, but as we claw our way back it's not back at all, just somewhere new. Everything broke and we cannot rebuild it, we just used some of the rubble in our new shantytown of a life. The magnolias all froze one night this week, dead, brown petals clinging to what had begun to feel like hope, I sit in my car crying because what else is left inside this shell but an ocean, what else can I do but let it out so as not to drown. New York awakens, fearful, reluctant.
When will we find our way home?
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