It's New Year's Eve...

[harborshore]

There are no fireworks, no partying, no shouting "Happy New Year!" at passers-by. People are home, listening to the State of the Republic (such as it is) on TV, trying to figure out how to live by the old rules and the new rules and maybe survive.

Across the river, there's a warehouse where the walls are filled with paintings, a warehouse where there are lights strung everywhere. There are no fireworks there either, but there is dancing.

An hour ago, Chantal called out for a better year to come, and the whole room raised their glasses in reply. Now, Amanda is humming softly into Dusty's ear, and Katie watches them from a chair, her bad leg propped up. She is smiling; everyone is smiling tonight.

Bob is also sitting, manhandled into the largest armchair in the room by Frank and Bert, giggling loudly. He's not allowed to dance (not that he would). Brian is leaning against his legs, carefully, so as to not hurt him. Every now and then, he looks up, smiles at Bob, who smiles back, always. They are holding hands.

Vienna and Kitty are getting ready: they start it, every year. Vienna sits down at her piano, the one they put together from spit and nails and eleven broken pianos (there's even a piece of a Steinway in there), and hits the first chord, Kitty a steady beat at her back.

Gerard is the first to join in; Lindsey is second, and then the rest, loud and clear. Somewhere far away, the stars echo in answering.

There are no fireworks in the New York City where music is not allowed, but there is singing. One day, there'll be dancing in the street again.

Comments

[harborshore.livejournal.com]

Love, darling. Happy New Year!