For the first time in literally years I raced the sunrise as I woke from sleep. Things are changing again. And I am changing with them. The city is dusty and the streets are empty. Early morning ballers wipe their sweat and change to shirts, a pat on the back, good game. The housewives and maids have been to market, pulling bags of meats and plants onto public transport that will bring them home. The young couples lie spooned in bed, content and at peace. The yuppies are deep in dreamland, to nurse their hangovers later today, probably noon.

My dirty city moves around intricate tangles of lives and stories and silent thoughts over coffee. The waiters extend unusual courtesy to the dressed-up church girl who walks in with a self-important air. “Good morning, ma’am, and I think I’ll check out your ass now” with a wink and high-five to the nearest busboy. The boy in the hat smiles and fixes his collar but he’s secretly battling cancer. This is how the city moves on Sunday mornings.

 
And still, in three weeks you are leaving. The headlines read “A Few Good Men in Government” and is that true, I wonder? Things are changing, and for the first time I am really changing with them. I wish I didn’t want to make you stay. But that is human nature.

 
The coming three-something years will be sobering. And you will only soar higher. But I’ll wait, and I’ll learn some myself. Not because you told me to, or that you would have wanted it. But because the lovers still lie in bed whispering nothings, and in three weeks you are leaving. Because the city will still move without you, and you would have loved to see it yourself. So I can be your eyes and ears, but only if you want.