New England is cold in it�s emotions. An old stoic woman with her hair wrapped tight who hands you pennies for candy but rarely smiles. It�s beauty is primarily green. Serious. It makes me think of nuns milling around in autumn. It smells like history. Old wedding dresses taken from a great grandmothers attic, aging wood, moth balls. Scenic New England displays a ghost on every corner. In general, the people are not touchy-feely. The eyes are a little bit icy, but the tea is always hot and food is plentiful. Stoic. Steven King. Fishing boats. Trees that stick to one shade of green. An American flag and a wooden cow on every other perfectly manicured lawn. This is the vicinity in which was born. I am home.

We gathered dozens of plastic pots of flowers from the nursery and loaded them into the car. Flowers that could survive in mainly shade and 8 tiny pots of ivy that will grow from off our window ledge. Our garden is large and spills out in an arc around the house. We will paint the garden with flowers. Fuchsia, orange, yellow, burgundy and dark green ivy. I will burn the images into my retinas every day before I open the gate and step out into the city.

Today, I missed the palm trees and the heavy smell of marijuana that wafted off of Haight street. Today I missed thousands of hippies whirling in Golden Gate Park. Today I missed the moist air of California, the way it crawls up into your head. I missed a perfectly ripe avocado, a perfectly blue sky.

I hope that I will learn to appreciate the parts of New York that I so detest, because there is so much that I do like about this city. I vacillate between love and hate. The thin line.