It used to be just a secret in my soul, something I’d whisper to myself in the darkness of winter to let myself imagine that change is possible, that maybe I wouldn’t live out the rest of my days and then die, a shriveled old lady, feebly pushing my blue Social Studies cart up and down the checkered linoleum hallways of PS89.
Maybe? Could I? Will I? Should I?
In time, it became clear to me that I probably would.
Then it was a secret I’d shared with just a few people. It became a smile, a whisper, a knowing glance, a voice lowered down to its most confidential tones.
Last week my travel itinerary arrived in my Inbox.
I told my bosses at work.
Now I’ve begun the strange process of seizing the day, of taking stock of my life here in New York, and beginning to sort in my mind: What will I bring with me? What will I leave behind?
A New York City rainbow: The brown faces of children staring out the window of the seven train, illuminated by the glowing green and purple in the light of the circular subway sign, framed against the backdrop of yellow and orange old-school subway seats.
The twinkling of lights many stories up as I leave Manhattan and cross into Queens, catching up with car traffic as I coast down the long side of the Queensboro bridge bike lane. The darkness of the water. The whooshing of traffic on my right side, compared to the silence of the water far down on my left. The steady squeaks and creaks from my bicycle as it sheds its winter-long stationary status, kind of like my knees.
I will exchange these well-trodden paths for new and unfamiliar ones. If my footsteps followed me, they would break fresh soil in August.
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