On the way back, everything smiles. They skip into JFK Terminal One and you see no traffic until the Williamsburg bridge: a slow, sunny traverse behind an ice cream truck, staring at the city. A parking spot waits just outside the door, the trees have grown a little greener, the east village lives again. The landlord writes, asks for more money but not more than that you believe you can find it. Two mourning doves court each other on the fire escape outside your window, Sunday afternoon and they have found themselves able to love again.
There's poetry to be found in the twists and turns of a world, there are fables to weave out of the tragedies of a life, this is not how you had planned to appear on this threshold but what if the arrival is
in fact
a gift?
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