And as if they knew it was time, the long, phony nails I’d glued on at the beginning of this trip began to pop off one by one, a rogue nail as I fumbled to silence the alarm at 4am, an escapee as I plodded sleepily through security and a rebel while I groped for change to pay for my yogurt and granola. And that’s okay, they were right. It was time.
Don’t get me wrong, make no mistake, let me be clear…insert more cliché segues here…the Sesame Street stoops, dismissed don’t walks, harried honkers and booming billboards…I’ll miss it all, fo sho. That’s for my kids. (note sarcasm) It was amazing to be a small part for a small while of a big city where dreamers do, believers become and impossible means possibility.
But as I sat on the plane looking down at my fingers and the few nails left, I thought of how they’d made me feel brave, self-assured. I’d worn them to take on New York and had begun picking them off to head home.
It made sense, really; New York had been bigger than me and I’d needed the nails. The thing about home, is I write better without them.
Wherever we are, anything is always possible. Location is irrelevant. And, so are the nails.
I sort of sent my last post out to fend for itself, forgetting to tag and categorize it. If you’d like to read it, it’s crying in the corner here.