The movers are here, swarming my apartment with paper and tape, packing up every tangible memory I have. I’m heading back to LA and I’m kinda freaking out about it. NYC is home, moved here five years and two months ago. I love my neighborhood and my building. The doormen have had my back this whole time. They’re friends.
And I made a few really important relationships here, people I’ll miss a whole lot, and I hope to see them when the bad cloud lifts.
This city has been grim and crippled since March 13th, tough to see it this way when its life belongs on the sidewalks and now those are barren. Maybe it’s easier to leave before it gets back into full bloom.
Last night, I walked Jim to our private place that we found when we first moved here. It’s a bench overlooking the harbor, under a canopy of trees hidden from the walkway that strolls along the river, police-blue lanterns reflecting off the Hudson, the Statue of Liberty right there. The river laps the wood pilings underneath. This place is as private as you can get in Manhattan.
