Missing

I was so done with New York three weeks ago, when I left on my "vacation". I have been basking in my parents' home life. I had to extend my trip, for personal reasons, and thought it a gift from the universe. I was grateful to be away from everything for a while.

But today I missed sitting at a New York City diner and having a cup of bad coffee with sausage, egg, and cheese on a roll.

I missed waiting for the subway and listening to 27 different ipods blasting not-so-different songs.

I missed walking on the crowded streets around Union Square, debating whether to pee at Whole Foods or at Barnes & Nobles.

I missed my set of too-many-keys, my subway cards lost in my purse, the sounds of my cell phone, and my yoga mat.


I missed my life- the life I have constructed over the years, that I take for granted on most days.


And I missed him, too.

As a friend so aptly put it, there's a hole in me now. It occurs to me that after a while, a human being is full of holes. Gaping spaces where someone or something or someplace used to be. We learn, and relearn, and unlearn, to walk around with these voids, I guess. Filling them up or covering them up or maybe leaving them there, exposed, for a long time. The sense is that something is missing (verb of the day), that something is gone.

I can change my setting, leave the reminders, but I'm still walking around with a hole.

Something is missing, something is gone.