Snow sparkling in a sun slice between the high rises on Fifth Avenue brought to mind our great Blizzard of the Century in '93, a day I cradle as the first day I made love. Not that I was a virgin at 37. But I was single…and single-breasted.
Tender enough from the surgery and chemotherapy to struggle with dragging a bundle of logs home to my fireplace from the Union Square market in the accumulating slush, I felt like a wounded bird, frail and delicate in a city full of the urgent and driven. They had no way of knowing I was intent on building the perfect nest for mating. Scones in the oven, a claw-foot tub full of fragrant water, and Annie Lennox on the stereo….
Dying is easy; it's living that scares me to death ….
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