I'm up early. Back on the Upper West Side. Sitting on the sofa with my dog in my wife's apartment. Her new go-cart wheelchair dominates the living room. It is an otherwise beautiful place. Stunning views of the Hudson and the majestic sweep of West End Avenue reaching north. I left the West Village last night to come up here. I've grown to like it here even though I dislike the Donald Trump, well-heeled, housing project feel of the neighborhood.
I'll spend Christmas here. It feels like home. I think. The alternative of being single and alone for Christmas looms and I try not to think about how I'd spend the holiday when my wife is gone. Maybe it would be like how I don't miss the living on Riverside Drive; but somehow I don't think so. I just don't think about it and try to live here and now.
It's a good way to try to be. I had a good year. A solid foothold in Miami, better business in New York, and being present even when it's hard. So I'll help my wife learn how to drive her Rolls Royce wheelchair. Can't say as I'm happy that Santa brought this contraption into our lives, but it is there. I rolled the rug up last night so its tight little turning radius wouldn't tangle it in the squat wheels.
I guess I do have a home for Christmas.
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