Leaves blowing through Mom's hair.
Friends poured in from here to there.
So did memories, ideas and worlds crashing.
I didn’t know what to think when the BBC called.
We chatted about serious play on Tuesday.
And city council passed the Gowanus rezone, developer giveaways everywhere, one step up, two backward throughout my years here.
New York is not quite a shopping mall, at least not yet.
The secret places are disappearing, replaced by skyscrapers.
Later that night, the teenager made her way out to catch a flight from LA.
She wouldn’t arrive till the next day.
I drove to pick her up at 6 AM Wednesday.
Hello Gorgeous.
Greetings and smiles and classes before the holiday.
There are people to see, out on the town.
I’m watching Bye Bye Braverman, stories of a funeral, everyones lost.
Not unlike today.
Thursday, we drove to Princeton to see Mom and Virginia and Helen and the family; partners gone, their friendship has prevailed.
Everyone is doing the best they can.
In Garrison, they celebrated without Penelope.
The Cowboys were busy losing.
And we digested Dante’s Thanksgiving meal.
Rare moments all of us together on Friday, chatting in bed, zipping out to Ft Lee for lunch, Garrison for dinner with Al.
Penelopes gone.
Al remains.
So do the woods.
So, we walked through them, hiking, listening to “Just My Imagination'', remembering last year, when we jumped in the hot tub, sprinting in the cold, giggling into the night.
Song after song, each with their own particular meaning or clue.
Stories about Cocteau Twins and their rise and fall.
I still don’t know what they are saying.
“Fairytale of New York” followed, the Pogues always deliver.
They did in the woods.
They did for Dad, those last visits, when he could barely see, so he listened to the song over and over.
On we made our way back to Brooklyn.
James dropped by, a few days away from Brussels,
The friendship remains, full of stories about Robby and Rob and friends, and adventures and changed lives, from Big Tiny to Barely Disfigured, late into the night.
Rocky Horror kept us going, into the morning.
Off we strolled to Red Hook, down Van Brunt and and back, greeting the lady liberty from Valentino Pier, saying hello to the water.
After our stroll, James made his way back to Brussels.
And I made my way back into Manhattan.
Kate and I always chat.
I get a text on the subway.
We wondered what happened.
More losses.
More clients disappeared.
OD is real.
fentanyl sucks.
Arlo no longer plays those Thanksgiving Shows.
Still the memories linger.
The teenager is on her way to meet me in the West Village, just West of Seventh Ave.
Tim and Mel welcomed us in their little apartment, one bedroom for everything.
Four years ago we were in DC fighting the GOP tax scam.
I love your hair, Tim said to Dodi, grasping for breath.
Last time the two saw each other was at an immigration protest.
And then our New Years party.
A long time ago, it feels.
Tim and Mel, still laughing, still fighting, still struggling, still looking out at it all.
So we chat through our topics, avoiding the topic at hand, as ALS grasps Tim, wondering what happened.
What a mystery.
Mel shows Dodi a picture of his old lover, who died from HIV.
Now his husband, another partner is perishing.
It's harder than HIV, Mel tells us.
I love you Tim told Dodi, gasping for breath.
Every week, speaking seems to get harder, words more elusive.
You pick what you can say.
Tears in our eyes, we walked out of his old Village apartment.
On we walked all afternoon.
You feel that Sunday feeling said the teenager, crossing Seventh Ave, walking to Washington Square Park, past Doris’ old apartment, past the apartment where her friend jumped.
Sunday sun was shining, not ready for her plane to be departing.
Bicoastal living is never simple.
A little of us is here; a bit there.
Smoke, weed, said a couple of guys in the park.
On we strolled Eastward, stopping for a slice, down St Mark’s place, past Search and Destroy, on our way to Tompkins, a few haunts, still taking in the wonder of it all, glad to be here before that jet plane takes her Westward, bicoastal for a year or two.
At Marie’s Crisis they were mourning Sondheim:
“Sometimes people leave you.
Halfway through the wood.
You are not alone.”
No one is alone.”
At 42nd Street, they were saying goodbye, singing:
“Sunday, by the blue, purple, yellow, red water
On the green, purple, yellow, red grass
Let us pass Through our perfect park
Pausing on a Sunday”
Guys are giving away food at Tompkins Square Park.
Love Letter to New York, reads a poem on Ave A.
“I have loved you my whole life since I was ten.
You lied to me then I believed you.”
Back at Bergen, they are cleaning up the graffiti, another day,
James on his flight back in Brussels.
The teenager flying West, back to LA.
Heartburn remained into the next day, heart still beating, concentrating on breathing.
Just breathing with everything, everyone who remains.
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