I am getting used to this missing-NYC-without-fervor-to-return-and-without-that inconsolable-longing. When I am asked what do I miss, it is hard for me to answer. I am learning that the way I saw/see NYC is not how others did/do, with the exception of few. As much as others can’t relate to me about New York, similarly I can’t relate to people in New York who have never left New York or have never lived elsewhere to have a comparison.
I was re-reading some works of Katherine Anne Porter this Sunday and came across this in one of her essays, “Memory for me is a tidal wave. I have lived for so long and so many lives, I hardly dare to begin with even the smallest, most trivial-seeming recollection. Nothing is trivial, not for a moment, if you really delve into the past. It can stop your heart for a beat of two.”
Anyway, if I had to say, it would be that I miss the most ordinary things about New York. A glance up during a walk, looking down the bend while crossing the street, insides of restaurants that resemble dreams, paint on steps that can put an “Instagram” filter to shame, and the sense of wonder that never stops.
As my friend V.G. says, that wonder is always within. Even away from New York. However, sometimes that “wonder within” begins to look like hope instead of awe while you are waiting for things to change.
But my mother is right, remembering should be done with grace if anything is worth being recalled.
Grace glides right alongside hope and often turns hope back into wonder.