Visiting New York is like being kidnapped by aliens. My senses are assaulted by unfamiliarity. Traffic, shouts, horns. A living kaleidoscope. Steam billows out of grates. Spices, coffee, something rank. Grit. The omnipresent press of people.
The city never changes and is never the same. Years have past since I was last here. My cousins have all gone gray.
I wonder about past choices. The decision for a different path. Perhaps she was right. I could’ve been content in the Big Apple.
I stop. A pigeon waddles on the sidewalk.
I’m rammed from behind.
“Christ, buddy. What’s wrong with you?”
Picture is copyright by John Benwell.