Chapter 6

When I packed up and left Ithaca, it felt like a piece of my heart was being ripped out. For a long time, I mourned the loss of my six-year relationship, feeling its absence like a phantom limb. I missed the cozy familiarity of Wegman’s, the thrill of hunting for cheap antiques, and the excitement of stumbling upon really cheap, sometimes free, furniture. I even missed the nature and the high-pitched fiddle music, despite being a city slicker who usually cringes at folk tunes.

Ithaca was like an old boyfriend—full of bittersweet memories. I recalled the good times: when he cooked that unforgettable dinner or dragged me to yet another artsy-fartsy movie. I appreciated what I learned about myself during our time together. It was in Ithaca that I discovered my love for sewing, knitting, quilting, crocheting, and jewelry making, all thanks to a vintage 1900’s White sewing machine I found at Quick Cash Furniture Center for just 40 bucks.

Every now and then, Ithaca tries to lure me back. I still have unfinished business there, like retrieving my stuff from my friend Pat’s basement and picking up Winter Morning tea from the only store on earth that sells it. Sometimes, random comments feel like love notes. My old boss, in a brief reply to a reference request, mentioned he thought for a moment I was coming back. Jon’s mom sent me a heartfelt Facebook message wishing she’d seen me during her spring visit. My friend Amy had a baby five months ago who I still haven’t met. And then there’s the farmer’s market…

But now, I’m just 45 minutes away from everything and everyone I love instead of six hours. I have the Lion Brand Yarn Studio, Enchantments Inc., Katz’s Deli, an awesome lady doctor, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Highline Park, and the best damn water and subway system in the entire United States. Yet, there’s a persistent, tiny tug that pulls me back to Ithaca. Just for a fleeting moment, until I remember: Ithaca buried my car under three feet of snow, cut off my cable/internet/phone, gave me crappy cellphone reception, and had me clinging to a light-box for dear life because it managed only 43 days of sunlight a year. No boyfriend ever put me through that (not even close), but seriously: there’s a reason we broke up. Lots of them actually.

The truth is, I love the lower part of New York more than I could ever love the middle. My loved ones are here, and that makes all the difference. Nothing compares to true love.