Sunday morning woke us up with dappled sunshine on our eyelids, full of promise, full of September Sundayness. Belying the awful reality of the date, the memory, the old ache a fresh wound of sorrow as we turned on the television. We watched, tears streaming (who couldn't? who didn't?), and held our heads. Still, a decade later, such unintelligible loss, but also, also this: so much hope, resilience, pride and love. We made our way outside into the sunshine, and found ourselves driving past my old apartment above the laundromat on Kirkland Street. Next to the butcher's. Where I lived with three beloved roommates and Mac the corgi, where I cooked my first and last Christmas goose, where I fell in love with P. Seems like so long ago, I said as we rumbled by. It was after 9/11, but before P's first tour in Iraq. Long and not-long.
We made our way to The Biscuit for lattes, warm baked things and the company of strangers. We're so lucky, you and I, he said. We counted our blessings, lingered, and finally it was time to board my bus back to Brooklyn, back to New York.