RW40827

We can rebuild her. Finally the snot-colored clouds and oppressive air has lifted and disbursed itself to the northern climes. She walks along the water on the hudson river parkway— now pristine, jam-packed with recreationalists jockeying for position on the water front. Why do New Yorkers turn everything into a blood sport? The waterview and boats free her up, put her at ease, at peace, the open horizon, the infinite blue— Nice, Yves Klein, her parents dead cat Oonagh she gave a Vikings funeral too-walking her down the quiet dawn on their west village street with the gunseller//wrapped in a tattered old towel. She had been sleeping in the cabin on shelter island when the cat appeared in the windowsill, a halo of light around her tiny frame and she’d known immediately someone was dead. David? The cat? Both in line… Now she walks this parkway and thinks of Nate. She’d spent seven months running and training and talking to him out loud. Cheerful every day. Despite the odds.