It’s cold here. Colder than any city filled with bustling people has any right to be. Cold in a way that does not inspire the flower to push itself with determination through the cracks in the sidewalk; cold in a way that nags at ones soul and leaves it shattered and broken at the bottom of the stairwell. I have taken to jumping, and screaming and dancing in the streets. I have summoned Walt Whitman and his warm tales of America as I sit at the Rivoli sipping on Savoy cocktails and imagining the warmth of times gone by. Times filled with glamour and intensity, fueled by late night conversations over dark deep Rye with the faint sound of trumpet in the near background.
I think of you here, living and growing. I see your first steps, first words, first feelings of loss. I imagine myself as part of this landscape, sheltering you from all that weighs so heavy on your heart. I imagine you as a child; so serious and strained, and I wonder if you contained the same ferocious hunger then, that you do now. I dream I’m the airy light within you that promises a better future. One for you to cling to, as a child cling’s to a stuffed toy on his first day away from his Mom. And through that hope I dream you found the ability to feel and grow and love with another.