A week and a half ago I was becoming an expert on catching the N train to Queens and navigating my way around the streets of New York.
Now I pull yucca weeds for my grandma nearly every afternoon as she watches from the perch of her golf cart.
I eat strawberries from our garden for lunch and watch the sun set, reflecting in undisturbed pools of water on the soggy cornfield after days of rain.
There are no fast-way bakeries or American Eagle outfitters here. Now I look to the west and to the east, and nothing changes for miles.
I talk to my grandma at the dinner table. She comments on the food - how it tastes so fresh.
Tomorrow morning I'll wake up early and eat some cereal and drink some coffee. I'll wear what I want, and my day will pass slowly and flavorfully. I'll work, but I'll enjoy my meals. I'll get nearly eight hours of sleep. And all of it will be peaceful.
But a sliver of me wants that razzle dazzle of New York back. Bring back the jazz, please.
