My first home

I’ve spent the better part of this miserable winter wandering the streets of New York, battling snow and wind. I remember seasons of storms, bitter chill and ice but this year? The worst of them all.

The apartment building I lived in still stands and 3C is occupied. Not much has changed, a coat of paint and a new carpet. The stair treads are still the same though, worn in the middle by countless pairs of shoes. Mine. Mom’s.

Our old apartment door is painted a cheerful lavender. Standing in the hall I could hear music and children’s laughter. At least there’s happiness inside those walls again. They certainly saw their fair share of sadness.

In my mind I could see Mom in her nursing uniform, like it was yesterday, gliding down the hall, arms piled high with groceries and flowers to make her little girl feel like a fairly tale Princess.

And I did–feel like a Princess.

I’ve been a real Princess since, but never with the innocence and joy that I felt in 3C.

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