Foliage

It snows in the mountains. I drove winding roads into woods on fire, all yellow aspens and trembling red maple leaves, and tried to remember who I am. Five days in exile, already I falter. An old, used version of myself reappears in my muscles, she sits in my spine and reminds me who I was, what I left, it's not so much a reminder that we can never escape our pasts as a kind nudge of how far we can come. He sends stories of the city, it feels a million miles away but my heart aches for it like I lose the needle on my compass when I stay away too long. My father shakes his head, how nothing makes sense to him, and I realize finally that it doesn't have to. As long as I remember my direction, as long as I stick to it and follow the steady voice in my ear, I am always going to be better off than when I fall off the map when someone else shakes it. I pull a long strip of paper from the envelope. Can't help but laugh.

Remember New York sees you when no one else does, and loves you at your most unloveable. Love it as recklessly and for as long as you possibly can.