Long have I awaited the tapestry to loom Over me as mountains own they valley with their peaks; Opening my mouth to taste the river through the flowers; Measuring the moments by the thickness of their hours.

"Not a word." I said, re-entering the bar I'd avoided for months, anticipating gasps and murmurs from patrons at my reappearance (as if anybody here actually cared that much about my return - or even knew that I'd been gone). I beelined for my familiar seat, adopted my familiar posture, and hoped to god I wasn't going to be put through the embarrassment of having to order my familiar drink. "Don't make me ask for it." I groaned. "For what?" she said, flatly. She was pissed. I knew it. Did I mention it had been months? I was a stranger on my home turf. How is it that I no longer belong in this scene? Why can't I just get fucked up like before? Does that allure of self-destruction now desert me? So, what…now I just have to live soberly with all my raging thirst? "Just give me the usual." I said, unconvincingly. "Oh honey," she replied, pitifully, "it doesn't work like that anymore." No. I thought. I don't suppose it does.

And even when it's just you and me at a dinner in the city, it's never just us anymore, is it? Just as you were never alone those 271 days, even all by yourself in that hotel room on a business trip; we're forever pregnant with our parenthood. We carry her eternally.

Can’t you feel the cold magic? Bitter air, but bundled up in puffer coats and chunky boots, clasping hot drinks with icy hands, pulling off gloves to feel the heat on our fingers, or to pick at roasted chestnuts, unwinding scarves from our necks as we enter cafes, disassembling and reassembling on repeat, store to store, the sharp trajectory of everyone’s travel, no dilly-dallying, no sauntering, no stopping for selfies, we have places to be, coffee to acquire, trains to catch, and we share in this frigid, collective experience, and we love it.

The crisp clatter of our winter city, simultaneously so uninviting and yet never feeling more like belonging to us; it is our resilient, steely tool, somehow at its most festive when frozen.

~ New York City

I’m surrounded by fabrics; a mattress cover for my daughter’s crib, draped and drying, its elastic bunching the soft pink creases into theatre curtains, her sleep sack alongside, fully unzipped like a butterflied filet of chicken, fluffy white beds on each level of the cat tree, a silky thermal blanket nested on one, cotton diapers tightly packed and ready for our upcoming trip, baskets of clean, folded clothes to follow suit, a half-donut nursing pillow on the floor beside the throw pillows, beside the bed from where they’re thrown every night, these spa-grade sheets, the decorative, tasseled blanket at my feet, the quilted pillowcase propped behind my back, and the buttery sleep shorts against my skin.

There are more fabrics to speak of in this pile-up of a pre-trip transitional state, but it’s not messy or overwhelming, it adorns every corner of space and renders them cosy; lived-in, personal, in tousled relaxation.

I could reach out in any direction and wrap around me our very life; materialized.