Back in Brooklyn

The feeling of putting the soles of my feet in old footprints is a unique one.

As the little girls’ first time in New York, it was exciting to share memories of yesteryears with them as we strolled familiar streets, entered favorite shops, and chased each other around playground equipment we used to spend entire afternoons relieving tedium.

Many things were the same but some things had changed. The biggest being me.

Through new eyes I saw the exterior of our old way of life.

Coming back to New York felt like hitting rewind. A playback of old memories, atmosphere, mood, and cadences both lovely and cruel.

It felt divine. After a manner of a few blocks I was inspired to create, behold, and grab hold of longings in my heart in a tangible way. None of which belonged to this particular place anymore but, dawggone it, if this city doesn’t make you feel like you can really get after a dream!

It hurt a little bit. I remember the fun and the struggles of every day life in a bustling concrete container and yearned for the slowness we have come to love in middle America. How shocking to come back to find remnants of a young woman I no longer was.

Somewhere between the mileage and years from the city and home changed me. I couldn’t pretend to be unchanged. I couldn’t go back to the old. Instead I’d have to embrace that silly synchronicity in the feelings of time passed and snicker knowingly; it had all gone by so quickly.

When we left New York my belly was rounded with the life of our oldest daughter. My mother was alive— a phone call away. Our son’s small; still able to straddle on hips to jog down into the subway station. Life no longer looked this way. Nowadays turned out to be— and I couldn’t have dreamt it— completely wonderful.