missing home

I miss New York desperately.

I miss the way my bike navigated those Manhattan streets so seamlessly and got me to my destination. Every time.

I miss arriving at work meetings just a tad late; always with a great story to tell about the new volunteer who had kept me in the first place.

I miss the way the sunlight came through my fourth-floor walk-up in the morning as Washington Heights awoke to another New York day.

I miss the kids at Harlem RBI and the way their city smarts mixed with youthful innocence in such surprising ways.

I miss Alberto.

I miss his apartment and his cooking and the way his speech slowed before sharing a contentious thought.

I miss his laughter and his kitchen.

I miss boiling water for green tea over his gas stove and then accidentally letting it spill over onto the burning gas.

I miss the runs around the Central Park Reservoir with Prospero and the way he always stayed just one step ahead of me.

I miss our weekly visits to the Duck, East Harlem's grittiest dive bar.

I miss my housemates and the pesky cockroaches that covered our dishes after midnight.

I miss the subway.

I miss the skyline at sunset.

I miss the trees in Brooklyn and the dinner parties we often had there on Friday afternoon.

I miss the joy of my life there.

And, though I am thrilled to be studying at the University of Missouri and realize that this dream of studying journalism is now coming true, I still wish, sometimes, that I could be there instead. I know that city isn't going anywhere soon. Although, by now I am old enough to know that once I get back, everything will have changed. Even the cockroaches.