Bench thoughts and a piece of cake

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I so-very-promised myself I wouldn’t write about it. I didn’t want to sound redundant or empty or cheesy. But some thoughts grow stronger than me every morning when I see Brooklyn blossoming cold. Every time I arrive in Manhattan to dance with the sun kissing every single person wearing a mask correctly. The truth is, it was only when New Yorkers’ faces were covered that I realized they actually smile. I mean, we do. Because I’m part of this. It feels good. Even when New York is an everyday appointment you can’t miss. It feels good. Now more than ever: I’m fully vaccinated sitting on a bench and watching urban life finds its way into a country-side hug. With a smile on my face underneath a two thousand and twenty fashion. Happy against the wind but immediately worried as the trees are not going to protect me from having a sunburn on half my face. I know we are supposed to wear sunscreen all year long, but aren’t we all over it, and over the fact we will never do this? How bad can my face look and who’s going to see it. That’s some heavy depressive shit. Well, I’m murmuring to myself about something way more serious in between some sips of bad coffee: where are our fellows free hugs employers in Union Square? The universe’s answer is my burned tongue. It hurts even more when it’s an americano. I get my phone and the screen is full of notifications saying the same thing: New York has finally legalized marijuana!!!! And my friends are immediately thinking of me. I wonder what type of reputation I built. Not that I care. After all, I’m fully vaccinated sitting on a bench and watching urban life find its new way out. Yay. Not really. Because scrolling down social media when you’re Brazilian it's a whole other level of pain. I knew the risks of ruining my day when I picked up the phone. So as much as I feel part of this coming-back-journey it’s not the first time I see life after death. I’m an immigrant. I die every time my burned tongue rolls differently to find my place out there. I die every time I sneeze in protest against the horrible flowers they have in the Upper East Side. I see life every time I get home, and it smells like it is indeed home. I see life after my tongue enrolls smoothly in another culture’s mouth. I see life after someone says “saúde” instead of “bless you” when I sneeze. You see, it’s amazing to touch hope. I thank the signs around the city. These little-big things do make me happy, don’t get me wrong. Thumbs up for New Yorkers, plus we can do this, etc. But my wound is way deeper. I feel like my heart squeezes the same way I do with my legs in the movie theater so people can pass by, every time I ask myself where the fuck is the life after death where I come from. When is my country going to be kissed by the sun? I feel eternally divided, as if my life is the result of a fight between two brothers for the last piece of their grandma’s cake. Except that the cake will dramatically fall on the floor and no one will get to enjoy it. All that because, there is no such thing as celebration of the new normal for those whose hearts belong in two places at once. And I have no idea how to finish this, but I should probably take a walk. I’ve been sitting for a long time.