East Village Grieve

You spend a day in silence, in literature and thought and sunshine. Walk the little dog around the neighborhood and marvel at the East Village in October sunshine. The community parks are all abuzz with music and poetry, you add an extra block to your route and the dog delights. Soft jazz wafts in from your open windows, you know there has been a fall when you were happy, but it seems so long ago now, there's a time after this when you won't remember what a smile feels like, I've been in the dark for years.

One day I walked out of an office and I never walked back in. I know the road has been long, and tiring, and impossible to navigate, but you have not left it, I promise. You're stumbling, legs scratched from the bramble, but you are still moving along, you are still taking step after step. A little dog lies sleeping at your side. Your father goes on a book tour at 70. Every page that lies ahead is still unwritten. 

So write it.