There is so much of the world I havenât seen.
As a child, I traced it on imaginary mapsânorth, east, south, west.
Watched dim videos on Orientalism at my motherâs desk, read poems about beatnics in London cafĂ©s.
I imagined districts drenched in red light.
Even then, I knew New York would seduce me.
But sheâs never been enough.
Thereâs a hunger she canât satisfy, a gnawing I canât name.
My fatherâs expired green card locked us in place.
He came here at fifteen, barefoot on hills that may or may not have existed, he told stories of stabbing a teacherâs hand with a pencil over a stolen hotdog.
I believed him anyway, because he made the world sound sharper than I could imagine.
My grandmother froze her cigarettes and nail polish, swearing it preserved them.
I remember the red gingham tablecloth, the smell of white leather and ash, the Jaguar that idled in the driveway like a ghost.
She told me about Italy, its air heavy with salt, about the man she would marry.
She twisted taffy into roses and handed them to me like secrets I wasnât ready for.
Her portrait now hangs in a chipped gold frame, glaring out from my mothers home office wall. One day it would hang in my home office.
My boyfriend would look at it and say, âDid you find that frame outside?â
âYes,â Iâd tell him.
Her eyes follow me still, unblinking.
She was a philosopher, a grocer, a woman who reposted prayers on Facebook, and I carry her face like an inheritance. At her funeral my Aunt, and my grandmother's youngest daughter, in the midst of grief swore to me that I was her favorite.
I like to think I have her eyes, not in shape or color but in tone. Not the tone of color but the tone of life. Her eyes were ones that could tell you all you will ever know about yourself in the simplest of hellos. Mine wonât stay still.
They wander, searching for something in every face I meet, every subway window I pass.
Even now, Iâm watching the space between my fingers and the keyboard, listening to the keysâ hollow rhythm.
The sound feels like a clock running out.
I trace the bow tattoo on my forearmâa scar from when I tried to carve a flame into my skin with a needle and ink.
In AP Lit, I read a poem about a burning girl leaping from a building.
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