[Morrigoon]

I keep telling myself that someday I’ll go back there.

It’s funny, you know, how you can live in the same city, the same 23 square mile island, and yet, exist in a completely different world. Today, as the modern me steps from the comfort of a heated town car into the refreshing cold of a January day, my Manolos crunching through the thin layer of snow that’s managed somehow to cling to the dirty curb in front of my favorite Starbucks on Pearl and Hanover, I stop and see the world around me with my old eyes.

There was a time in my life when cold wasn’t described in terms like “refreshing” or “brisk”. Children of that age of course rarely venture beyond the definition of “cold” or “hot” to describe the weather, of course. But if I had been a little older, if I had been, say, my mother, I might have used her words to describe the world around me. Perhaps it’s a blessing that I wasn’t old enough to learn how to apply “bitter” or “desperate” to situations in my life. I think I was happier for it.

The heat from inside blasts me in the face as I open the door, compelling me to remove my hat and fan myself with it. Honestly, why do business owners think we want to roast in their stores? I can feel a smile creep across my face as I think this. My inner first grader still can’t resist a good pun, even if the new me wouldn’t dream of making the joke out loud. “The lowest form of humor,” I’ll never forget that description. I’m sure it came from one of those artsy French films I subjected myself to throughout my teen years. Funny how things stick with you, isn’t it?

Heading out the door with my last gingerbread latte of the season, I cast a quick glance over my left shoulder. Hey, everyone has their quirks, this is mine. I don’t actually expect to see them there, but for the past 30 years of my life, I still look. That’s when the new me takes over. I’m not six, mom is gone, and handprints on the door’s edge no longer track how grown up I’ve gotten. Sometimes I wish they did.

What would those prints look like today, I wonder? Would they have an expensive manicure or wear a fine watch? Would they be higher up on the doorframe? No, they wouldn’t look anything like me today. Those hands didn’t need expensive clothes or the latest technology to be happy. They just needed to hear that they were loved, that they were beautiful. That they mattered to someone.

“Julie? Julie, can you hear me? Yeah, I’ve got one of those goddamn delivery trucks next to me… listen, cancel the rest of my appointments today, will you? Something came up… yeah… yeah… look, just tell them I have a meeting, okay? I’ve gotta go.”

Slave and master, I think, as I slip the Treo back into my pocket. This damn phone is with me everywhere I go. Well, today it got to do something useful for a change. Feeling recharged (dare I say inspired?) I pull it back out and turn it off completely. There, I’ve done it. What a grand adventure this is turning out to be! Damn, my coffee’s cold already. I sip at it anyway. Still tastes good.

I start to hail a cab, but then think better of it. Not sure I could find the place if I had to recite an actual address, and anyway, if I’m going to this much trouble, I may as well do it right. Now I’m actually laughing out loud at the ridiculous image of me actually riding the subway. How long has it been? Were there always this many people on the platforms? People mistake me for a tourist the way I’m looking all around me. No, seriously, I do NOT want a lenticular postcard of the twin towers. Not an Empire State Building keychain either. Buddy, if you don’t get the hell away from me I’ll take that goddamn keychain and slit that unshaven throat of yours, I am NOT kidding.

Who the hell AM I today? I feel alive! No, wait a sec, it’s these shoes, they’re pinching my feet. I look with longing at the feet of the nurse standing beside me. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those things ordinarily, but my stilettos were clearly designed for a life of town cars, not subway rides.

All the tourists are gone now. The smart ones, anyway. This neighborhood is no place for them. Technically it’s no place for me either. It’s no place for anyone. I’m starting to wonder what the hell got into me to come back here, this has to have been one of the dumbest-

Oh my god. They’re still there. I can’t believe they’re still there. Suddenly, it all washes away: my life, my petty worries, my anger at the drycleaner this morning, my concerns about bond prices, the empty Starbucks cup I’m still clutching… nothing exists but me - the little girl in pigtails clutching her big brother’s castoff coat around her shoulders to keep out the cold, and those handprints by the call buttons. The world reaches out and gives me a hug. It may only have lasted a moment, but in that moment, I was loved, mom wasn’t dead, and I had no idea what a “ward of the court” meant. And for that moment, I didn’t need anything. Not the manicure, not the Starbucks, and definitely not my empty corporate existence. I am a big girl now.

I needed this.

I whip out the Treo once again. It, at least, has not outlived its usefulness today. I snap a picture of those prints; white paint smeared into the concrete grooves. I set it as my background picture. This is me. This is what it means to be truly happy. I won’t forget again.

This city hasn’t sucked my soul out of me… it just kept it safe until I was ready to have it back.