We make jokes that it’s more of the same, that we’re stuck in this time loop, but it’s too soon for such a joke, I am not ready to laugh yet at setbacks. I take meetings from a visitor waiting lounge and the clients fawn over the skyline behind me, the strange gift of skyscraper views isn’t lost on me.
Later, over pad see ew, you tell him how you are not yet ready to land in a place that will have you take your things out of storage, and the sadness in his voice when he says Why? makes you think people are not ready for your fires, for your flights. You no longer see sadness in the way your roots refuse to depend on mailboxes, on furniture that nails you to the floor.
You see only how they wrap themselves around other souls like tubes in a hospital bed, like upper east side hotel sleepovers, like circles of support that extend around you for miles across this island.
You used to think your lack of a mailbox made you unmoored, a specter cursed to walk the earth without somewhere to land, but it isn’t true. You sleep secure in the embrace of people who’ll walk to the ends of that earth, just to bring you home.
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