Homesick

I am a New Yorker. I will always be one.

I’ll argue whose pizza is best, juxtapose random yiddish phrases and Italian swearwords and can parallel park like a beast. New York City Champagne is the best tap water on earth. I had to hitch-hike home the day the towers fell.

For the last few years I’ve been living right across the river in NJ. Most recently, Bayonne (birthplace of George R.R. Martin… no kidding, I pass his childhood home every time I run in the park near my house).

I don’t dislike Jersey. I’ve got some good memories here, and I actually really like my current neighborhood. But there’s something in the familiarity of going back home. Where my accent comes back because everyone else talks the same way. Where my niece and nephew play in the same backyard I did. Where the people who helped form who I truly am as an adult still congregate.

My first full time job out of college was truly a dream job. I got to work with animals and kids and I adored it. I adored the people I worked with. Over the 7+ years I spent there, we became more like a family. We bickered and argued but through it all when shit hit the fan we were there for each other. Whether it was setting up each other’s rooms when somebody was running late, dancing like a fool at someone’s wedding, or supporting one another when a loved one died. And I don’t mean one of those sad little handshakes and the generic “I’m sorry for your loss” that you give a mere coworker.

I hadn’t seen most of these people in at least 5 years. And I was sad that I was seeing them because one of our own just lost her mom. But it was so incredibly good to see them, hug them again. She was greeting people at the door when I arrived. She immediately stopped her conversation and came over, enveloping me in such a genuine hug I almost cried.

We waxed nostalgic about the good old days. We got caught up on what’s new.

I need to be better at keeping up connections. These are my roots. I need to water them.