another year, another place.

Off the bat, yes, I know how ironic this is. 366 days ago (don’t you love that 2020 was the year of an extra day?), I’d spent a year in the city of golden light—sometimes feeling precisely the opposite.

For me, now, Los Angeles feels like an old lover, someone you grew to love and left and now reminisce on fondly in a rose-colored halo of nostalgia. But the reality of it was different. The relationship was hard and turned honey-sweet from brashly bitter and back again. LA itself felt both how I imagined and how I didn’t, in that it had the irresistible glow of excitement, but with tarnished edges and some beautiful nooks and crannies in the mess. 

All this to say, I know I’ll miss her as long as I’m away—I’ll miss the comforting embrace [of 7am amber light pouring into my third-floor apartment windows], the gentle sway [of palm trees in the breeze, standing tall, unabashedly], the caress [of sunshine kissing everything it can reach], the warmth [generally], the bravery [it taught me in teaching me how to be alone].

So, now, a year that felt like five later, I find myself once again surprised, in a different place, and thankful, even in the liminal challenges. I’m hopeful that what the pandemic took in geography and opportunity, it will return in a sense of appreciation for the little moments—the kisses of sun, the embrace of normalcy, all the physical kisses and embraces yet to come—I want to capture them and hold on now more than ever.