It sways and swerves in waves all its own, reminders of times past, friendships entwine into the present and build on memories future, you laugh into the space created among yourselves. She asks how it feels to be back in New York and when you say it feels like home, she smiles, satisfied with an answer she was afraid to request. You are never fully sure if answers you give are merely the ones you read in other people's pleading eyes.
Navigating unknown street corners, you make your way to the river. Here is the park where we met halfway during the pandemic, floats past your consciousness, memories of strange accomodations to unreliable gameday rules. You see the river in the distance, November gray, an entrance only half-familiar from days before they closed the promenade. Your steps are heavier than they've been, slower, but you take them, and after only a few minutes do you not feel different? Do you not feel exactly the same? Joy returns to you in strange pushes and pulls, it, too, twisted into time so that the two are indistinguishable and though you don't know which end to untangle, you are not bothered of the work.
To have joy, and the time to find it, is a better gift than you could have known to ask for.
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