west

Mornings when I wake up to the sound of rain, or just to the smell of it. The grey light. I love when someone asks me where I'm from, because I get to say the word. I get to name it. 

Lately I've been missing my home fiercely and actively, but also with a worrying logic: worrying because I don't feel ready to leave, but there's something more tangible and rational calling me back. It feels like an adult desire, counter to the things that keep me in New York - the energy, the potential, the unending surge of human life. There is a part of me that is starting to silently nudge at my collective here, to be less vehement in my protestations whenever one of them mentions leaving. They might have to go first. It's the most concrete reason I have for staying: my community is here. My people. And this is undeniably true, but there's a pull there, too, and I can't help but feel like I'm waiting for something to tip the scale. I've said I will wait out the three years of my visa in this city and then decide, but those three years suddenly seem - maybe - too long. And when I close my eyes at night I have started to conjure up a beat-up old car, the rain on the windshield, familiar green streets, the ocean, lights at the end of a driveway. It's a lucky problem to have, I know: so many places I might be happy. But for someone who has always had trouble being present, carrying the weight of a country on your shoulders isn't the best way to live a life. 

Vancouver, by Cat.