Outside it's 56 degrees and the sky is blue and cloudless between the skyscrapers, though the buildings keep the church garden in shade for most of the day. After being buried in snow and ice the plants, nameless sprouts, are still green. The street is packed with business men and women, tourists, and students. The smoke from the food stand smells of lamb, rotating on a skewer in the back of the aluminum room on wheels. I walk with a purpose on my way to the bank. I am wearing a blazer. I belong here.
It's weird that I live in New York, I think. Everyone told me I would hate it for the first year, but I already like it here.
I can still hear Texas. I sit down to pay bills and instead I write a thousand words about Houston. I sometimes miss riding in a car between cities and the Mexican restaurants with big, square rooms. I want to write about Texas and highways and walking to the bank and what I had for lunch. I want to write about everything; everything has meaning. Something is hidden in every experience.