Dear New York City,
I’ve not forgotten you. Even as I lace up the hiking boots that I’m wearing to work today, I haven’t forgotten you. Even though I swore to myself a year ago that I’d never wear them to the office, I still remember you. As I look at the work-issued polo shirts hanging in my closet, I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you that I’d never submit to wearing polos.
Nor have I forgotten the agreement that we made against me ever, ever wearing khaki pants. But the polos are my “uniform” at work, and the khakis aren’t Dockers, they’re North Face. I bought them at REI, and they’re just so darned practical. Don’t you see that I can leave the office in said khaki pants and boots and head straight for the trails? Not that I’ve ever gone hiking directly from work, but you just never know when I might need to. No, no, no…I promise you, New York. I haven’t forgotten you.
Even though I listen to country music sometimes in the car, I haven’t forgotten New York. My ipod is still loaded with Dark Was the Night, Bonnie “Prince” Billy, The Black Keys, and a slew of other artists who actually sing and write their own songs. And when Emily Wells comes on, I close my eyes and in an instant I’m back on the G train heading to Long Island City from Fort Greene.
New York City, I have not forgotten you. But I’ve learned not to romanticize you, either. As I look out my Southeast Missouri window and a halfway frozen creek and low-rolling hills covered in snow, I can see the sky and breath in fresh air. My view of Fort Greene Park on South Oxford Street wasn’t bad, New York, but this one is better.
And don’t think that I’ve forgotten the four flights of stairs I had to climb to get to my apartment there, New York, because I haven’t. Here in Southeast Missouri, I don’t have to carry my groceries up those steps. Nor do I have to haul my laundry up and down them on my way to that dingy, expensive laundry mat two blocks away. In fact, I have my own washer and dryer here, and my laundry room is bigger than my bedroom was there. You want me to forget those exhausting little details, but I haven’t. I remember you, New York…I remember everything about you.
I remember the beautiful spring days and the way the fall rushed in on me on one particular Saturday morning when suddenly the walk to the farmer’s market required a jacket and a warm cup of coffee between my cool hands. I also remember the woman who was raped in plain sight a block and a half from my home. Don’t think I’ve romanticized you, New York.
I remember the rush of riding on that Triumph Bonneville for the first time over the bridge into Manhattan on our way to see some obscure indie film. That was the first time I saw the skyline without a layer of scratched, greyed subway car window glass between it and me. But you know what, New York? I also remember how God-forsaken cold you felt that day when my relationship with the man who drove that Triumph ended.
You’re a bitter sweet city, New York. You felt like home to me in so many ways. Ways that I don’t anticipate I’ll ever feel at home in any other city or town. But you and I? We’re over. For now at least.
So please, New York. Please, let’s remember the good moments fondly, but let’s not forget what a pain you can also be. Let’s let go of what was so that I can enjoy what is, and so that you can move on to your next unsuspecting small town girl. She’ll arrive on your sidewalks without realizing that you’re after her heart, and you’ll slip into that heart, making yourself irresistible to her just like you did to me. Girls like me are a dime a dozen to you, New York, so please, please, let me go.
Thanks New York.
Love,
MilliGFunk
