I am adding up what there is of my life.
I have never considered doing that before, because I never thought in terms of its ending. I thought only in terms of failure and success. Not living or dying.
But here I am in New York on a truly glorious day, if one can define ‘glorious,’ by a radiant sky, patches of truly warm sun, and a crowd of enthusiasts screaming out their approval for those who could get into ‘Hamilton.’ There were hundreds of them I would venture, screaming out their enthusiasm for the fetching kind-of barker she was, the actress calling out the numbers of those who’d won in the raffle for who went inside to see the show. It was probably as dramatic as what went on inside, on the stage. There was no guy in the crowd as cute as she was.
I hope one still find romance in New York. I mean romance the way it used to be. With a guy you were attracted to. If you were a girl.
Am I terrible? I miss romance the way it used to be. Where some words were exchanged that seemed friendly. Wrist brushed against strangely electric skin.
It is my hope that somewhere, maybe not exactly where I was, because to my surprise I am older, I who was, almost always, the youngest one, romance exists. But except for what I have seen of a sort of passion, New York is still streets freckled with garbage. Trucks waiting and cranes hauling up. No place to come for peace.
And yet that is exactly what I am seeking. I have come to that point in my life where I no longer think about conquering. I wanted nothing more once than a show playing on Broadway. I had one once, and it failed, Opening Night, like in the bad comedies. The same week I gave birth to my daughter. My sweet, handsome husband drove with me back from the theatre to the hospital, after the last laugh. It wasn’t there.
Mel Brooks and his beautiful wife, the great actress Anne Bancroft, came with us in the cab. “Well, you had two things happen tonight,” Mel said. “If one of them had to be less than perfect, if your daughter had been born with six toes, or two noses… that would have been okay. What mattered was the show.”
That was my life Ago. I am trying to live in the present. It’s hard.
But I have a pigeon, or a small bird of some kind—I am not a student of ornithology—is that birds?—on my window sill, in a flower box she nested in, on top of an egg. We are expecting a chick.
I can hardly wait. I take it to mean We Have a Future.