We missed the cherry blossoms.
Blown away they were, the lot of ’em.
Mornings now are like the autumn of my arrival: cool, suggestive, empty and full.
This park has become a sacred place for me, a pilgrimage.
Year 1: I sat here and wrote lists. Reasons to wake up. Things to do before dying.
Year 2: I wrote a poem in Spanish, using words I’d learned in bed.
Year 3: I zoomed my way North on a city bike, promising JC that our destination was fairy-tale-esque. Everything had changed, though. We could hardly move for selfie-taking couples and fresh-faced parents balancing new babies on tree-limbs. A field of Instagrammable branches, an intro to social media for infants. The smell of roast chicken wafting about Quintana made me happy to be alive, anyway, and we didn’t take any photos.
Year 4: I broke a month-long alcohol fast with a tiny bottle of beer and a few gulps of wine. We played word-games, which bring out the best and the worst in me. The sun hid itself away and reappeared when it wanted to. Things were better without the blossoms.