Ends

I wake up to a room of white walls. Clean lines of neatly taped moving boxes sit comfortingly along the periphery. This is a world I know. It’s still early when I get to the river, speak with the skyline and wonder if this is our last meeting. Say silent goodbyes to the regulars, New York is a constant unspoken agreement of loss and connection. I wonder where I’ll land when I come back. A large ship trails by, it’s name in large letters on the bow. Red Hook. 

I take an extra moment with the clovers, let myself stay in it, my request silent, hesitant. At last, holding tightly to the ground, a tiny, half-eaten four-leaf clover appears. I remember the first one I found, years ago, beat up and imperfect, and the lesson I took from it. Calling this full-circle is too on the nose to even mention. Luck comes in all shapes. 

I pluck the clover, tuck it away safely. Return to the home of the moving boxes. A neighbor comes over, prepares to make the home his. So much light, he says, and you wax poetic about how the windows won you over. You do not tell him how you made this apartment appear out of thin air, do not tell him of your Friday child ways, this home is his now, your thin air lies across the horizon, 

waiting for whatever else you are ready to make 

appear.