Dear Manhattan,
I am floating above you and I can see all five years splayed out across the avenues, that Lily of the Valley body mist traipsing down Lexington, my first sober diner dinner just 20 blocks north, the anxiety of my Mother in the hospital just a bit further southeast. I can smell Morningside Park and I can see the tens of thousands of stairs down there, the buzzing of bees and men on bikes with “what’s your name? Where are you going?” I can feel their stare burning into the back of me as I pack up 492 Manhattan Avenue for the very last time, my gaze climbing the fire escape as Sean did that night we were locked out. West greeting us with his soft meows and his silvery velvet handshake. I can smell the smoke of those first few cigarettes and the entire first season of Sex and the City. A black off the shoulder onesie and a Carrie Bradshaw inspired tulle skirt celebrating alone in Chelsea, a cigar bar in the village with that Broadway EP. I’d never kissed a man twice my age, and I don’t think I will again. I smoked American Spirit yellows and it wouldn’t be long before 30 Vandam grabbed my hand and lead me into my favorite chapters. So much to know, so much to grow into, dreams of something more and being able to touch it, feel it in my fingertips for the first time. It’s real, this isn’t fools gold - I am finally rich in all the ways I never dreamed I could be. Imagine that, all those early mornings, that last drink with James at Meehans, all for this - it was worth it. Climbing out of hell was worth this view and the pleasure of a body aching finally at rest. There is so much left to see, the subway has carried me through my 20s and all I want is one more bodega coffee - almond milk and two sugars.
