Sing, Sigh, Hiss

Oh it’s good to live in New York in December. The Bergdorf windows, Carol of the Bells at Saks, the Angel Tree at the Met, gawdy boughs on the Harry Winston doorway and that hideous bow on the Cartier store.

And so right now I’m particularly sensitive to a sad conversation that happens a lot here. “How long are you staying?” we say. Ask Louise or Lisa: it’s a fabulous place to live, but more likely than not, you can’t stay. You stop affording it, you grow out of its apartments, your feet start to hurt. Perhaps it’s that you catch the underside of Frank’s ditty: it’s hard to make it here.

So we come for a couple of years to start our careers and then something pushes us out. My in-laws came to church with us this fall. They laughed. “It’s a half-step away from a single’s ward,” they said. True, we’re young, but you should hear us on congregational hymns!

It’s lame, this knowing we won’t always be here. In the past six months, two of my best friends moved away from me. Yesterday, a friend emailed me a picture of Adelaide in nursery with all of her little friends. I got a little teary looking at it, because more or less, every one in that picture is on their way out.

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