"Two Saturdays in Peekskill"

Main Street hums in lamplight. The moon stayed hidden, but the night still spoke.

🕯 It’s Saturday night. From the balcony above Main Street, the hills flicker with candlelit windows—little houses, lofts, apartments glowing like quiet lanterns. No street closures tonight. No festival drums. Just the scent of backyard BBQ drifting up from someone’s porch.

Across the way, a woman walks her dog in a rooftop garden. I’ve heard artists live there. This is the Arts District, after all—where lofts are meant to be affordable, where creativity is supposed to have a home.

Then there’s another kind of Saturday night. Or maybe it was a Friday night. Nights become blurred and they merge like in a dream in a writer's twisted prose.

North Division is closed. The crowd is alive. A woman with a smooth, sultry voice leads the band outside Whiskey River. She owns the street.

And there he is—my favorite bartender. Black shorts, black tee, wild white hair like he’s either a genius or a madman. A lovable madman. He sees me, kicks me in the ass, and we’re laughing again.

Some people you can still love with their hands around your neck. I suppose he’s one of them.

He slides behind the bar to tend to demanding customers. I get back to filming. Back to the music.

And in the wee hours, with YouTube humming in the background, I realize:
I’m better off than the blog I didn’t publish.

Better off with a lot of things.

And I can finally see what I need to let go of.

Because sometimes, moving on isn’t optional.
​
It’s sacred.