Through

When I reach the river, the FDR is overrun by marathoners, suffering their way through thirteen miles of pavement. A man stands on the overpass, cheering them on. 

You are New Yorkers! he yells. You are tough! Don’t stop now. 

I want him to hug me. Instead, I run against the current, slow sunday steps on the pavement, a growing ache behind my tear ducts. The problem with the thaw, of course, is that all the rot you’ve hidden returns to the surface. I stop to take pictures of blushing magnolia buds preparing for the burst, of oceans of daffodils, of sprouting leaves in macro closeup. 

On the subway to Brooklyn, everything is numb except a welcome soreness in my legs. Everything else remains dead. I gather energy for the smiles, for the updates and sarcastic jokes. Table for three, please, this weight in my chest needs its own chair. Last night at dinner, she speaks of escaping war, of making it out just in time  says her brother is trying to “make it as refugees,” like it’s just another hustle  we have been Americanized beyond recognition. Was there ever another way we could’ve been immigrants here?

Nobody ever told me this was what life crises were about. I may have opted out, 

if I knew.