coming home to new york was like slipping back into my skin. as soon as i stepped on to the subway at howard beach. back where i belong, but with this cloud of sweet memories. the two glass marbles that i made and j made clicking together in my pocket and the little glass jars with raspberry preserves and thyme-scented honey and chestnut paste and ginger cream packed in among my clothes. i rubbed the 50 pence piece to give to m with my thumb and listened to the rude noises of new yorkers. it felt like they were staring at me because no one who lives here would be so glowing and patient on the stifling subway platform, but it felt good to be deliriously tired and look at familiar subway lines that would march me home to bed-stuy. i watched the clock and thought about j settling back into his home with me flown away and no longer taking up space there, and s tying things up at work so she can cross that now unreachable distance to be close to me again but on a different continent where neither us will be foreigners. everything here looks freshly scrubbed, even though the kitchen has been taken over by fruit flies and everyone at the museum is wan and underslept.