Southern Exposure

I went back to New York and several things occurred.

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. New York will always be the city that I lived in when she died, and I am…

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