Tonight, after an upsetting play in Times Square, I literally found myself on the uptown platform of the 1 train, when I was supposed to be on the downtown platform of the Q. It was habit. My heart hurt from the play, you see, and I headed for the comfort of home. Only home is no longer in the direction of the uptown 1. This happened to me once before, when I was 10 and my father died: all you want to do is go home, but there is no home. Home, for me, I guess, is people.

Or dogs. You think this is a photograph of three of them, and it is, but it’s also more: it’s a photograph of home. Not only that, it’s a photograph of love. I know that. I know that. No one can tell me any different. I know it. I have a photograph. It’s right here.


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