There is a deck just off of the living room. With a grill and a hammock and a built in bench along the far corner. Some mornings I wander over to the window in front of it and pause there, study how the snow has collected or begun to melt.
I have never lived in this city in a home with a proper outdoor space. There have been the occasional roofs that could only be enjoyed illegally and for a moment at a time.
When I lived in Brooklyn I was sure that I would sit out on the fire escape most mornings. But it was shared with my next door neighbor Pete and the whole thing felt pretty intrusive, for both of us. In two years I never even got around to putting plants out there, as I promised I would.
This winter has been cold. Brutally, so. The amount of snow not too terribly great, but the number of days in which walking into the wind felt torturous, many.
I want so much to take off my heaviest coat for the last time and donate it to Goodwill. I want to drink white wine unapologetically, and sojourn down to the Lower East Side for spicy margaritas and open windows. I want to head west to Utah and sit on my parent’s deck and take in the green mountains and go hiking with my girlfriends. I want to wear skirts without tights. And nothing but light sweaters and jean jackets. I want and I want and I want.
But because I’ve learned there is value in making my wants smaller, in distilling them down to what is most essential, I think of little more than that deck off the living room. And how I will sit there in the mornings, before work, and drink my latte and give thanks for fresh air and warmer weather. And try to touch my toes as I do so.