Spring in the city is my favorite season.

I missed the spring blossoms last year without ever having left the city. During this time of year, last spring, the city constantly blasted sirens announcing neighbors were sick and dying; the city cheered and banged pots and pans in the evening offering some sense of community and triumph in utter isolation.

Parts of the city masked up and wouldn’t make eye contact when passing by strangers; parts of the city were expected to work with no change or protection from human suffering; parts of the city remained in utter denial, parts of the city escaped.

We knew so little about the virus; it felt like COVID was in the air flying like stray bullets. All you had to do was unknowingly be in its way to be its next target, the next person to die isolated from human touch, the next person to be stored in a freezer truck, the next person to be buried in a mass grave.

I was too afraid to leave our tiny apartment. If I did, I walked so quickly—I didn’t take the time to witness that, in spite of all the human death, like every year, spring was still blooming all around us.

Alhamdulillah for surviving one year of a pandemic to witness another New York Spring with loved ones who are also survivors, who have moved on in profoundly beautiful and subtle ways, who know with deep experiential knowledge not all seasons are created equal.