On homesickness

I miss the way sunlight streams through a canopy of red and gold leaves, and autumn winds that taste like mountain streams. I miss the sight of two-story split-levels of vinyl and brick on either side of the street, with half-acre yards neat as turf and speckled with dandelions. I miss the smell of damp earth on freshly raked leaves, and the ridges of a decade-old handlebar against my skin. I miss the way the trees rustle as a wind combs through their leaves, in just that way so you know a storm is brewing on the horizon. I miss the feel of carpet underneath my feet as the first swollen drop of rain pitters against the window, knowing that the purr of an engine will soon sound in the driveway. I miss the vaulted evening sky, spotted with stars so innumerable they seem to crowd against the distant darkness, until the spaces between us seem to shrink and grow at the same time. I miss soaring down narrow streets on a bike at three in the morning, until the wind slices at my face and hands with cold razors, and knowing that nobody will ever be there to slow my way. I miss the way moonshine reflects off the snowfields at night, so that the ground itself seems to be glowing white, and the air is so cold it hurts to breathe, and so clear that you only wish you could take deeper breaths.

I miss all these, as I sit in this jewel-speckled city, with its palaces of glass and steel. I've traded a great deal to be here, for the right to pursue my dreams. Sometimes, in the depths of my complacency, it's good to remember what all of us gave up in coming to New York.