Tell me on a Sunday please
I woke up early this morning and sat on the sofa and dialed up WQXR while I read the paper, and halfway through this article on Terrence McNally and his art collection, I suddenly missed New York very palpably. I could feel it in my bones. I moved at the worst time of year, during the ugly season, and I went back twice over the summer, which plucked at no heartstrings, but I always knew autumn would be hard. There’s a reason people write songs. So this morning I closed my eyes and for a few minutes I let myself miss the streets and the sidewalks and the Saturday brunches and SarahB and Sally and Potato Killer and walking home through the park and running down to the coffee shop and riding the bus up Central Park West at twilight, the hush and the quiet and the great gorgeous romantic brilliant grownup beauty of it.
I read once that a certain strain of Capricorn is bound to be dissatisfied with their lives no matter what and thus run the risk of growing sad and angry and bitter, and I wonder sometimes if I’m that kind of Capricorn. If I’m that kind of person (it can’t only be Capricorns). But what kind of person doesn’t long for things? What would life be without yearning? Every time I say I miss New York a friend will ask “Are you going to move back?” and the answer is no, I will never move back, but my heart will never leave it.