I went back to New York and several things occurred.
- I broke down sobbing in the terminal. (Because it was hers, the gateway to her new sunburned life, and the last time I went through it was to fly there to confront her death). The loudspeakers were blaring ABBA.
- It didn’t feel like coming home. Midtown was too fast, too grey, too loud and, though I matched its pace, I was a stranger there. Perhaps I always was. Perhaps therein lies the city’s charm. We wander among aliens who look (vaguely) like us, like planets who will never orbit close enough to touch. I miss my friends with holy vehemence, but I have wholly acclimated to this other, dappled place. There is that disconnect, that obstacle of miles between (which we will traverse gladly, all too often); I have become a visitor.
- New York will always be the city that I lived in when she died, and I am…
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