The Bridge

“The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.” ~ F.S.F.

I know I’ve written about this before, but i miss New York. I miss it like a dead loved one, i miss it like my grandpa, i miss it like my early twenties and every object I’ve ever misplaced. The night before i left, i was in a cab crossing the Queensboro Bridge and i looked back at the lights of Manhattan and all the possibility i was being forced to leave behind. The lights were fading, dimmer and dimmer. I thought about how many mistakes i made and how hard I’d loved a person who was now sleeping soundly on that island, indifferent to my circumstance; i looked back at the Empire State Building bestriding the life i wanted but couldn’t have. It was my last bridge crossing and the worst by far. As soon as I hit the other side, something slammed shut in me. What was i relinquishing? I would never know, good or bad the mystery left my heart and soul kicking and screaming.

No one wants to come back to their parent’s home with nothing to show and no exit date. There’s a point in your twenties when you’re not afraid to be a grown up anymore and all you want to be is a grown-up who’s afraid.  Afraid of making rent, of bills, of savings and all the trappings of adulthood. It’s a delicious fear I want so bad, it’s a fear that means you’re truly on your own. I know in my bones I’ll be back, New York and i aren’t done with each other yet. I look forward to the day i cross the bridge again, towards the lights growing brighter and brighter.

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