Fuck these boxes are heavy.   I drag box 9 of 10 into my tiny apartment and psych myself out to grab the last one.   7 flights of stairs and 1 hernia later, I’m in.  

As I’m unpacking, I take inventory of what has made it with me.    The picture of me and my girls in the Bahamas,  my neice’s homemade mug, and my sister’s kick ass painting all now belong on this shelf.  In my living room.  In my new apartment.    The only thing missing is… well, everyone.  

I take a break from the organized chaos that is now “my place” and decide to take a walk.   I close the door behind me, lock the 2 deadbolts and the knob and run down the seven flights of stairs.   I open the door and breathe in the smell of the city.

The bus is packed full of strangers tryin’ to get to their destination.   I see a lil’ girl holding her mom’s hand, walking down the stairs to catch the train.   Hot dogs and peanuts on the corner of this street, and lovers holding hands sharing halal on their lunch break.   The horns are honking, the sun is out, the garbage is on the sidewalk, and I’m falling in love all over again.  This is why I moved here.   This is my city now.   This is my new home. 

But this doesn’t feel like home.  At home, I could have left my front door wide open when stepping out for a walk.  At home, the streets are lined with trees and friendly neighbors.  At home, I could have gotten into my car, drove myself to my favorite froyo joint, and pigged out.  

I turn the corner to some street and realize that I’m lost — in every sense of the word.   Where the fuck am I?  What the fuck am I doing?   How do I get back?    I look around me and nothing looks familiar.  The street names make NO SENSE to me and it doesn’t help that I left without my phone and I have no GPS to bail my ass out.  

Urrrgghhhhhhhh….   OF COURSE this would happen to me.   Of course I’d get lost in a city I don’t know.  Of course I’d leave all my shit behind.  Of. Fucking. Course.  I take a big breath and convince myself that  I’m a big girl.  I know what I’m doing.  I am NOT  a damsel in distress.  

I hail the first cab I see.  
“Where to?”
“Home,” I say.
“And where’s that?” the cabbie asks. 

I hesitate. 

“Home?  I…don’t know.”