Can you hang the key on the hook by the door before you go? he writes from somewhere over the Atlantic. You walk around the apartment and collect your things, close another chapter in the book you can't stop writing. The Brooklyn sun is bright, like it's trying to remind you that it knows the secrets of springs, that it will bring them to you if only you wait a little longer. The piles of snow melt quietly on the street corners, as you drag your suitcase to the L train, reveling in the transit that always grounded you to yourself, always brought you home. At the airport, you try to distract the agent from checking the weight of your bag, try to distract her from checking the weight of your expectations, your cheeks flush with spring sun, how can you possibly explain to her the freedom that sits in your ever-expanding chest. An exit row seat appears, your heavy suitcase disappears, you have all the time in the world now to sit and stare out the panoramic window as a city which has promised to wait until you return to it, a city that has promised to bring you spring if only you promise to come home.
You are all promises, all confidence in the idea that somehow you can still have it all.
That somehow, the pearl will be handed to you. Somewhere along the line there will be girls, visions, everything.
It isn't hard to promise,
then.
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