I will not miss waking up, thinking a child is screaming nearby, only to realize it’s the hissing radiator right next to our faces. I will not the window unit blowing icy air up our nostrils while we sleep, because our bed only fits into our bedroom in one way. I won’t miss the way we can’t be in the kitchen or bathroom at the same time without rubbing bums or bumping elbows. I won’t miss the too-narrow hallways and the too-steep stairs and the smell that comes from the apartment below us. I will definitely not miss living on the sixth floor of a walk-up, although sometimes, weirdly, it’s kind of rewarding to work for it.

 

I will miss our little fire escape, barely big enough to fit on, and how it overlooks a rooftop gym where school-day memories are made. I’ll miss our exposed brick, of course. I’ll miss how the sun creeps in the window near the front door at a certain angle at a certain time, if our winter coats hanging on the coat rack aren’t stuffed in the corner blocking it. I’ll miss the speakers built into our fragile ceiling, although I won’t miss our fragile ceiling. I will sort of miss how loud and excited the washer-dryer gets, only sort of.

 

I’ll really miss Copyland (I print too many things, still) and the down-to-earth baristas who became friends at Stella & Fly and the too-kind grocery store workers at C-Town and the grandma slices at Roma Pizza and the bundt cakes and banana chocolate chip muffins at Padoca Bakery. I’ll miss our florists, Johnny and Bobby, who taught us how to actually take care of house plants, but especially free tequila shots and good conversations with our friend Carlos at Conmigo. I’ll miss being a regular for the first time in my life. “It’s good to see you” touches somewhere at the very bottom of your heart, much more deeply than “Have a good day.” I’ll even miss the shitty AMC.

 

If you ask me what I’ll miss the most, it might be the morning walks and bench meditations on the East River that eventually saved me in the deepest of depression and anxiety and grief. It might be the way the flowers bend to welcome me in Carl Schurz Park no matter what; how the ferry never fails to cruise through the water; how happy puppies play on the blacktop before the rest of the world wakes up. It’s the route where I can stop to engage in my ritual of having a Black Star coffee in hand. It’s the reprieve of strolling down a quiet 1st Avenue, and then the electric buzz of walking down 2nd, one block over. It’s the escalators on the Q, because I’m lazy. Most of all, I’ll miss our address saying New York, New York………….