Neighborhood

The city was empty, like that scene in Vanilla Sky where Tom Cruise runs through Times square, except Mike and I weren’t running, we finished brunch in the empty diner where we spooned fruit salad in our dry mouths, and we were driving through midtown Manhattan in an eerie series of green lights, one by one, onward and upwards to the Westside Highway, the the Henry Hudson up the Sprain to the Taconic State Parkway and looping a mile through the lush forest to the neighborhood where we grew up, and it was empty, too, every so often a mailbox standing at attention at the end of a driveway, the trees letting the light wind rustle their leaves just enough for little flecks of petals to sift through the air and land just so in our open palms, in the calm of the country, in the center of our hearts.

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