"The Birds Don’t Always Mate for Life"

At Whiskey River during Open Street Weekends, this is the calm before the jazz begins.

You know it’s time to return to writing when blogging begins to feel like a burden. You crave something more—something quieter, a clean slate inside a new house, your own sanctuary where the echoes of overstayed visitors fade and the rooms remember how to be yours again.

It’s Friday, though, and I’m not here to lament what needs fixing. The urge to write outpaces the fatigue of hospitality—the friend who never left, the lust that fizzled into a sleepover, the living room that slowly morphed into a halfway home. We all stumble. Some fall for the shimmer of attention, others for the illusion of permanence. But lust fades, and maybe monogamy is fiction—charming in theory, wearying in practice, a script we yawn through when the chemistry’s gone.

I admire the swans—those birds said to mate for life. That’s a beautiful thing, if you're lucky enough to find the right one. I haven’t. Not like my grandparents, who seemed stitched together by something stronger than habit. Still, this Friday brings better light than the last. I might even lace up my sneakers, stretch, and ease into the day as if it’s waiting for me.

Weekends in Peekskill have their own beat. When North Division closes, the road becomes a lounge. Tables spring from the asphalt, drinks are poured where tires once rolled, and music swells from both ends of the street—Division at Main, Division at Central. Whiskey River anchors one side; Rueben Mexican Café holds the other, pulsing with Spanish rhythms I half understand but fully feel. I dance less out of fluency, more out of surrender.

By Sunday, the streets are a carousel of faces—at Esther Place, down by the river, and threading through the Flea Market. Peekskill opens up, its diversity on full display. It’s not just movement; it’s a gathering of possibility.
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So here’s to morning stretches, unfinished blogs, remembered love affairs, and the silent gamble in every wish. Because sometimes, you get exactly what you asked for—and still feel like something’s missing.

No Two Sundays Are Alike in Peekskill