Friday, December 11, 2020

Home is Where

I spend very little time outside, these days, things being what they are. A walk to the train on my way to work, a couple of blocks to the park to sit in the booth where we sell Katie’s butterfly sculptures to holiday shoppers, a trip down our street in Brooklyn to the glowing fluorescent lit aisles of the grocery store to pick up cat food: these are what passes for outdoor activities in the late capitalist morass of a pandemic in America.

But sometimes, leaving the light of the subway station for the dark residential streets of Park Slope where the only illumination comes from the dim glow of darkened living rooms in brownstones that seem too large to hold so few people, sometimes I’ll look up, wind will scour my face, a plane will fly across the face of the moon, lonely blue and red lights blinking out its destination in code, and I will think, “I’m going home. I didn’t go very far today, but I’m going back to the only place that matters.”

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