Forget Jamaica. Well, don't forget it, but put it aside for a while. Now I am in New York. How did I get there? I read the neighborhood section of the New York Times and suddenly I am on a sidewalk. There are tall brick houses on both sides of the street with stone steps crawling to every doorway. Wrought iron fences, waist-high, line flowered yards. Shops intermingle with homes. It is four o'clock on Friday. Black lamp-posts stand stout every twenty yards, like friends, and though they are not yet lit it is comforting to know that soon they will be. The trees are old and tall but look young, still missing most of their leaves. The first green growth on the branches is twittering in the wind. Vendors' tables decorate the street. A purple tablecloth grabs my eye. A handsome young poet is playing a guitar on the steps of a brownstone. His beard looks soft and delicious. He is, of course, taking collections. Children are playing hopscotch right in the middle of the street. The adults keep only one eye on them This is not the neighborhood I live in, but I have to walk through it to get to my less afluent apartment in Brooklyn. (I guess--it's hard to imagine NYC when you've never been there--but I assume that from Brooklyn, one can walk anywhere...hell, I don't know). I stop to look at a colorful knitted hat. The air is still cold and frosty but there is the taste of warmth that is just beginning. The air smells polluted if you breath too deeply but its not so bad once you get used to it. No matter how long I've been here I keep thinking to myself "I am in New York City" with a sense of awe. No matter how stalled my life might seem, I know that I am in NYC and therefore, by association, I am doing something great. I can see skyscrapers over the roofs of these houses. Just around the corner, I can hear horns honking and people shouting and shoes clickety clacking and bells ringing and dishes banging and lights flashing and love making. Just around the corner, the earth is moving. I look at my reflection in front of a bakery. I am still the same girl. But I feel different. I look at the people walking past--everyone has somewhere to go and it seems like where they are going is the only place there is. The barrio girls, the fancy women, the school children, people of all colors and cultures, the butchers and the bakers and the candlestick makers--all the people here--have one thing in common--they cannot aford the luxury of being afraid. Each place you turn there is something new to bump into, something to propel you into your inner resources, something to make you stand up for yourself. "What do you want?" is the question New York asks. "You shall have it," is its reply. Into the great wide open...the eternal abyss of what you desire...all questions can be answered here.

I am here to answer my own question. What am I made of? What am I made for? I am hoping to run into my destiny. Maybe it will run into me as I am walking on the crosswalk among hordes of people, come swirling down from heaven into my head. I am riding in the current of desire and dreams. I know I will be served. I am going to be able to say "I survived." My postcards home read "I am homesick only for the rolling green pastures but it really is not too bad...it is a short drive to the countryside (3 hours). My neighbor sometimes lets us borrow her car. We love the adirondacks. I am nervous about Issac starting school--some neighborhood kids walk to school on their own but I will be taking him myself... We adopted a dog from the animal shelter to keep us company. The furniture is sparse but Issac's art decorates the walls. Throw dinner parties for my new cool friends. Still haven't found a publisher. Have been writing a lot. Start teaching soon. We've been to all the Yankees games so far but three. Issac implores you to write more often. Please come to visit soon. Love--Melissa"