Red Hook is so quiet on Sunday mornings, lying in rest, a collective agreement to not. The cruise ship lies docked but no one's getting off yet. It's cold. January sunrise. You drag your bags – the same bags you schlepped home from Chelsea last night – back downstairs and down the street, a week's worth of dirty clothes and some leftovers you found in the fridge. The car is ready, waiting. The Brooklyn Bridge gleams in the morning light, the FDR is empty, you're careening among snow-covered trees in no time. Arrive in the old Victorian house before your coffee's even gone cold. The house is freezing, there's a charm to opening it up again.
You are overwhelmed with kindness, with generosity, with friendships. How many keys are in your possession? They open doors across the land. You are not ignorant to that gift.
One season goes, another takes its place. Some days it's enough just to see a new sunrise. Enough just to open your eyes.
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