This blog is staying in The Heights. For three months I've been having an affair with Brooklyn, attempting to leave The Heights for a coop on the other side of the tracks. For three months I've been trying to convince myself that it's the right thing to do. But sometimes the right thing falls through, and you pick up the pieces and move on. And sometimes the right thing turns out to be dead wrong. Suffice it to say that the deal fell through, and I'm nursing bruised feelings toward a coop board that wasted $1000 of my hard earned cash. It seemed like the place held the key to lower housing costs, more financial security, and freedom to write. Even though I met all the requirements, the coop board turned me down without explanation in a curt "sorry for the inconvenience" rejection letter.
So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden. Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive. The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light. My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight. The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey. And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight. The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did. Poochini lay in my lap like a baby. I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air. It almost worked. After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring. Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street). Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn? That's been done. And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.