White Horses

The city was all green, but I wanted nothing more than to stare into the sun. We meandered through the Park, giggling at the passers-by, chatting up the horses. Every pebble another adventure. If I looked closely, I could see the buds exploding. Spring washed over me and I was nothing if not willing to be swept away.

Rosy cheeks walked through the heart of the village to drink its beers. Eventually squeezing into the Tavern where Dylan wrote his words, where Jack sat, where legacy is carved into the wood bar. So close to home we forgot to turn on Morton Street, and this is my life. Turning the lights out in a room where nothing else fits once the air mattress has been inflated. (Whoever needs to get up first sleeps on the floor; it's easier that way.)

Kiss me, I'm Irish, he said. But I was far too busy, making eyes at the world.

Spring Forward.

Long evening sunsets on the high line. Tired feet and giggling hearts. Time has changed and it makes all the difference.

Late at night, carefully stepping down dark stairs, opening heavy doors, behind which lay young dreams of song and hopes of if we can make it there. Reminded again of the Rightness of letting passion drive you, how worthwhile it is. Always these steps down, always the life of the city taking place in dark cellars underground.

In the bright sunlight, we share giggles with one to whom the world is new and every stone needs turning, every face needs smiling at. How refreshing to remember simple joys, no less profound by being uncomplicated, and people are so easily charmed. We look on, we follow in the games, and we let the sunlight seep back into our pale skin and tired hearts.

The city wins me over, again. The mattress so soft beneath me; I sleep, instantly.

On Love

I have been here before, I have been in love with this City over and over. In my mind, in my youth, there was a dream, and a crush. On that first arrival night, as I saw the City loom ahead of the shuttle, I experienced the dream with my rose colored glasses and it could do no wrong. I walked the streets and was happy, was floating, was infatuated. This time around, I have been allowed more time, more ups, more downs. I have seen the Mundane Mondays and powered through the moments when it didn't seem to matter if I was here or not.

Sometimes it helps just to have someone else here to show the city, to show it off. To realize how much there is here that I take for granted, because I am secured enough to be able to do so. That no matter the downs, it is my City and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Such delicious cocktails at the well-kept secret. Such treacherous stairs into dark cellar corners, but another world hiding where jazz is live and rules are for gentlemen of old. Where quiet, idyllic Morton street is just around the corner, and deep conversation can take its time because the ice in the glass is a glacier.

I fell in love with New York long ago. But I am only recently beginning to realize that now, I love it. Come rain or come shine (or, lately, torrential downpour), it is my City. I stand by it, as it stands by me. Love, is a long time in the making.

The Last One That You Keep

And here we were in this quiet corner of the Village. A fancy drink, a simple beer. The dearest old friend, the sparkling new friend, the fancy cocktail lemon twist. I stood under a street lamp and smoked, tiny droplets misting their way around me but all I could think was How bright is New York in the dark. It makes me feel at home, that the night is never black.

From the window of the bar I could see our Morton Street courtyard. Our stories were of old days, nearly forgotten. Of madness on 28th and Lex. Of the first day we met, how long ago that was. Of the life that is now, adventures and adulthood, and how simple it is after even a year, because friendship is friendship, regardless. I signed the tab, we ran across the streets.

Exhausted, I lay my head on my pillow. I remember 24 and a city all brand new. All these years later and love still in my heart. You take care of me, New York, and I'll take care of you.

Sinking into Sweet Uncertainty

Another cup of coffee, and another. All day, so tired, so apathetic, so unable to fill the empty sheet with the words that would pay the bills, would appease the Very Important Person on the other end.

Patience, said a voice within. Trust that it will return.

And then there it was. The tickled rush through my synapses, the insatiable hunger for loud music in my ears, the complete disregard for anything going on around me. How much easier when the rest of the world grows dark and silent, to spread out one's ideas and energies on the floor and begin to piece them together again. Hours pass, without food or break or weariness as the deadline adrenaline writes its story, as it will. Years of this, and I never learn. Not to do differently, but to accept the process.

There is, at the end of such a night, a feeling more delicious than any other. The free soul, the tired body. The quiet room while my mind races to wind down. I enjoy this bit the most.

I chose the right life for myself, it seems.

If I Could Come Home

I rode the train with the suits, as usual, but then I switched to an uptown local to a stop I barely recognized, amazed how every train carries a different population. Here in this undiscovered part of town, lay an apartment that maybe, maybe would be the first New York home of my dear friend and fellow immigrant. I had promised to look at it, even though who was I to judge whether such a place could be hers.

We have lists of requirements, or requests, or even wild fantasies of our dream home. We walk through endless apartments, we open cupboards and imagine ourselves sitting in the window sill. We hmmm and we oooh, all the while jotting down pros and cons and checking off the dreams, or not.

Is there something better out there? Could this be good enough? If I pass this up, will anything at all be waiting around the bend? You walk back down the four flights of stairs and try to know if this was the place, and how much you are willing to fight for it. You hear a creak in the step and wonder if that is the dealbreaker.

But then, there they are, the moments when you walk into an apartment and your heart smiles, when you see your list and toss it out the window, when there is no flaw you are not ready to love entirely. The feeling in your very core that says that whatever may come up, you will accept it and make it work, because this is your home, and this is where you belong.

How much finding that apartment is like falling in love. How much love, is like coming home.

The White Box

I was late, I was exhausted, I walked right past it. I needed to be working, I needed to eat dinner, I needed so many things that were not what I was doing.

But spring is back, and my resistance crumbles quickly. So I went to the opening at the hole in the wall on Broome and tripped along the Lower East Side streets to dinner and drinks and silly giggles until work was further from my mind than a Mad Hatter. On my way home, my high heels kept the beat to the music in my ears; I knew I looked too happy for these cynical streets, and I didn't care.

Perhaps I'll pay for it tomorrow when the deadline bites at my heels. But it turns out that there is more to life than deadlines.

And Central park in a carpet of croci and snowdrops is magic.

There's no competing with that.