Daffs, again and always, in the rain.

I guess it has been three years now since I had a melancholy blather about daffodils.  Seems like so long ago, yet so close to home.

It is funny, though, when you think about the fleetingness of days and how time and life change in a near instant.  As the feets of snow began to earnestly melt, I bought from the season's first shipment. Though, the sheer glow and simple ease of it remind me that in the mass of things awry that life will return to its normal rhythm.

Daffs, all those years ago, marked a moment for me.  I remember drinking my cup of tea, those daffs sitting on my window ledge, and my shoulders fell and my breathing mellowed.  I realized that that 'hood of Astoria had made me love my NYC home.  There's a simple peace in that kind of comfort.  The pharmacy, my Dr.s, the fluff and fold, the park, the bakery I loved, and my favorite kiosk for Greek pies were all within a stone's throw.  

Then, life changed.  I left my 'hood and home to literally reside a handful of subway stops away in Sunnyside.  Still in Queens, geographically closer to Manhattan, and more NYC as Sunnyside boasts the dreaded seven train.  Yes, you are not a New Yorker until you reside on the seven and experience more hands on your ass than a hooker on a military base mid deployment.  I've got hand marks that aren't going away until New Years, and it's only April!

Wandering the streets I've found my grocery with my favorite creamer, the chocolate almond milk I've been drinking like a crack fiend seeks a fix, and the best mangos this side of the Puero Rican Diasporas in the Bronx.  

The scenic signs make this 'hood feel a bit more like home.  Though, I bought daffs again.  I bought from that first shipment, and after a two week sojourn to Eastern Europe--consisting of work, some me time, and a questionable exercise of my liver's capacities--I procured some more.  The florist remembers me now, as  . . . well, he says, "my blue eyed friend." 

I'm at home again.  Peaceful and at ease.  Dancing in my apartment, in various states of undress . . .  Rest assured the curtains are closed, unlike I often let them fly open on the second floor in Astoria.  Being on the ground floor, this time, makes you think twice about flashing the neighbors.

My clothes are all hung.  My street art holds my walls up and my prints from my camera's eye reinforce the kitchen walls.

Sewing machines are set up, and jeans, and button downs, and other atonements of daily wear have begun to spew forth.

And, this PhD took on an IKEA bed.  PhD won.

I'm still excellent at being alone, and in more ways than one I've slid--rather seamlessly--back into my single life.  I still have insomnia, but it is a fraction of what it was.  The unbearable tension in my shoulders dissipated early on.  I don't trip over dirty socks on the floor.  I drink the juice from the bottle.  Pasta for one, with an avocado on the side, with The Good Wife on performs like a romantic story of love without regrets.  Yet, the romance this time is that I've got myself back.

The jeans, blazers, heeled boots, and pearls gal is resoundingly alive.  Shoulders back, long curls fluttering in the wind.  Her vibrant red is back with a vengeance, and those blue eyes glitter with laughter and desire.  That return of the infectious laugh is most welcome.  The Rizzoli in me (of Rizzoli and Isles, sans the badge) is abounding like a comfortable old friend.  Don't stand so close.  If anything, I've always been good at being alone.  I have that and a good cocktail down to a refined art.
And, beer pints--and whiskey tumblers--serve well for consuming chocolate almond milk and iced coffee because . . . I've got this adult living down well.  

The day I bought my daffs the rains came when I was home, washing away that last of the snow blackening the street.  Poetic.