i can tell you everything about election night and concession day - that’s what i call it, concession day - but nothing about the days that followed except it felt like a hot headache, like i was being swallowed whole, like i would never stop crying long enough to take an entire breath. and i love a spring day as much as the next person, but oh god, did i ever dare to hope that i would walk across brooklyn again? buy flowers and listen to carly rae jepsen and come home to throw open the windows and let my lungs and heart fill up tall with sungolden air and possibility?
certainly, i did not.
when the flowers were all in vases and the windows were all open, i climbed out onto my fire escape with a mason jar full of gin & la croix and listened to the next episode of our silly glee podcast and nodded toward the me who moved here two years ago - “pbr & grapefruit juice, pink and cheap, the perfect thing for a fire escape and feeling very far from iowa” - and laughed at the reliability of spring and a sweet drink in a dumb cup. that’s all it takes, you know.