I walked the Brooklyn Bridge two years ago this weekend. I walked the Brooklyn Bridge on a warm, crisp, fall day that seemed too good to be true. The sun poured, the breeze cradled, and I took a deep breath of fresh air. (A deep breath that I thought I would never be able to take again, as I began to drown in murky, dark waters that fall.)
I walked the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time and snapped too many photos and entertained the thought of living in Brooklyn and forgot to think about the practicalities and forgot about everything. Two years ago.
I planned to go this weekend. To New York. To walk the bridge again (perhaps) and to forget a few things, but not everything this time, and to photograph the skyline and make friends with the sun again after this hot, humid summer. Mostly, though, to feel not so far away from the life I inadvertently started living that day but have yet to step into, actually.
Last week, I caught an October cold that turned out to be more than a cold and that stole my voice and my NY weekend plans.
But the sun was warm here too and the breeze almost crisp. I packed my camera and headed out Saturday morning to see this city as a tourist - an arms length away from this place I am both living in and visiting. Weak after only a few blocks, I bought a pumpkin spice latte to show the green leaves the shades of orange and brown they should be wearing and turned back for home.
Home.
We have a covered porch and a lounge chair with a cushion. Old trees and a front yard before the sidewalk. I put my pumpkin spice latte down next to an empty corona bottle atop an old cooler, more evidence that summer hangs on a little longer down here. I only had to reach into my bag to pull out my moleskine and pen. She walked out in her pajamas to ask how I was feeling.
Evidence that I am living this life, too.
