Too many days pass in silence: quiet sunrises, falling leaves along the river, Lincoln Center after dark when everything gleams of New York. The mourning doves line up along your windowsill, basking in the sunlight and escaped radiator heat. On a sunny Saturday, you pack the last of her potted plants and jewelry into the station wagon and drive a person who once was your home across the river to the settled life in suburbia. You absorb her smiles, then hold your breath until you are safely upended on the other side of the Holland tunnel.
The temperature drops in the middle of your run along the river, you cannot be mad when November beams at you. You dream of London in the spring,
Everything ties itself together somewhere. You are just not sure, yet, where.
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