This year, Manhattan was unendingly dreary. It seemed blocked in stone. So much stone. And there was so much rain. We were hemmed in. Too close, too dreary.
The many mornings of rush hour trains didn’t help. That hustle that lead me to become hard like those buildings, elbow my way in through closing doors, gritting my teeth because I’m gonna get my turn! Survival. This instinct to make it that shoves anything else away. Eye contact. Grace.
Then last night, walking late down on Manhattan’s west side, the mist slurping the tops of skyscrapers, I realized it was changing. The temperature was mild, the sidewalks were not slick with rain but damp with dew.
I turned down a residential street and there were curled leaf buds on street trees. Not just splashing their green for show. They were nosing forward like riverboats preparing for voyage. That fresh color seemed impossible a month ago, like we’d exhausted our lifetime quota of spring. I’d wondered if they’d ever come again.
This morning, there it was again, that close mist, that green. My step was lighter and I could breathe. I was walking. Not rushing. Birds rustled in branches above. I looked up. The morning hush said, no matter you don’t know where to begin or how to end, no matter this city of strangers and garbage trucks still sneaking and prowling–this day is for you, your season is here.in Flash memoir and Writing.