Just passing through

My commute from day care to work (and vice versa) is through our old neighborhood, where I lived on Friday – and every day for three years and two months before that. This morning I walked through our the park and by Henry’s the playground and for the first time felt like a visitor.

On Sunday as my mom and dad packed up our final boxes, I walked from home the old apartment to the drug store and saw only new faces. Even the drug store was having a grand reopening after a recent total makeover.

It’s easy to succumb to nostalgia when you are sitting, eating, sleeping, playing, living in the awkward spaces between half-unpacked boxes and you haven’t played at the new playground or shopped at the new grocery store or bought beer from the corner bodega or stepped on a stray bunny graham or read any New Yorkers by the new window under the new light at your new apartment.

I’ll post soon about what I like about our new home, but for now I lament the loss of bottomloss brunch and one-pound cookies a block away, of hearing the building’s front door open and knowing the person coming inside, of the group of older women who always asked Henry how his day went as we passed them sitting outside their apartment complex on the way home each day, of our walk home through Central Park, of our previous proximity to Central Park, of how close we were to Central Park, and of the short walk to Central Park.

With the grandparents down this weekend needing a place to sleep and the current disorganization of Henry’s room, Henry’s been sleeping in our bedroom so far, and maybe for one more night. Then the real move will begin.

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