Peacock Feather

When I was in the lobby bar of the W Hotel in Manhattan, a man offered me a flower from the bouquet he was carrying. I chose a peacock feather instead. A pretty commemoration of my last night in New York. The end of a week that felt like a bubbly drink.

When I finally finished unpacking one of my bags from the trip, the feather was tucked inside. Bent. Imperfect. Not unpretty. But not so nice anymore. And the colors looked duller, unenhanced by that W Hotel blue. A fitting metaphoric closure for my return.

I heard a song today and it made me sad for missing you.