Last night, while we were driving back from Lowe’s for the second time to look at the same tiny apartment-sized freezers we’d looked at on the internet 910928 times so that we can better house K’s never-ending supply of organic free-range hulking cuts of meat, I despairingly asked if K “ever felt a ache that is positively physical from living in the city and not being close enough to water or mountains?” Truthfully it was a redundant question because I didn’t wait long enough to hear her answer before weeping all the way down the Prospect Expressway. This city and me, we are not a match, and some days are worse than others.
And so it made me feel infinitesimally better to come home to the pile of Meyer Lemons K spontaneously brought home from the ridiculously expensive co-op down the street. They’re too much money, they’re not local, the fuel it took to get them here is ruining everything for the next seven generations. But the sight of them piled on the kitchen counter, and their bright flavor, was so delicious for a lonely January. I want to find a little sunshine on winter nights. I slept well for the first time in weeks and woke up ready for something different.