Magic in the Air

"Which city would you like to visit, Camille?"

"New York."

"Why?"

"I didn't know I had to explain."

"Okay. Fine. You leave as soon as you finish packing."

I know I only lived in New York for a year and that was way back to even count. But my first memories are New York memories. Daddy carrying me on the subway, his one arm carrying me, his other hand holding on to the rail to steady us. Going with Mama to the grocery in front of our apartment. The Italian ice cream shop below our apartment. The smell of tire tracks on the streets. Learning how to chew bubble gum without swallowing it. Learning to tie my shoelaces. Eating only green M&M's. Getting my finger stuck inside a semi-open can. And finally leaving New York to go on a road trip to Minnesota. New York Memories. I remember, I remember.

It's time to go back. My first stop is the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then the bookstores and then see if that ice cream shop is still there and maybe the owner will still think I'm cute enough to give me a free scoop like he used to.

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. They say there's always magic in the air.

I rush to my room and open an empty suitcase. I look inside the closets but nothing's fit to pack. I can't find the clothes I want to bring. I don't even recognize the clothes. The clothes fall to the floor. I pick then up and try to take a good look at them but they slip out of my hands. I glance at the empty suitcase and start to panic. Oh no. Oh no. I know I have that beautiful winter coat I bought in Hong Kong on a whim. Where is that? Where are my jeans? I can't even find my jeans! Shit, please, please, let me pack, please let me go back to New York.

Please. Please. Please.