Sweet
When I see the snow falling, something inside me churns. The gray-brown hues of a New York winter, the over-heated apartments, the smell of musty basements and Laundromats. Like a friendly wake-up call. Cold like I've never imagined, nor has my sister, who has truly been spoiled by the L.A. sun.
The castle-like brick-buildings evoke memories of elephant-ear plants and peering over the window ledge, watching my father wave from the sidewalk. And my nursey school teachers, Rosy and Mercy. Alphabet plastered along the walls, tables low to the ground, itchy carpet beneath squirming bodies. Show and Tell: I'm moving to Cal-i-for-ni-a. Oohs and aahs and it's someone else's turn.