Perhaps it is not the city at all. Perhaps I am simply growing out of it in the way we all grow out of our hometowns. Perhaps New York is trying to shake me loose, trying to tell me to go live, that it will still be there when I return.
You throw yourself into the surf, let it pummel you into the underbelly of the tide, and toss you out. You wash up on the slick shoreline exhausted and waterlogged.
There is a psychological theory that says that time appears to move faster as we age because life is all about ratios. One year to a four-year-old may make up a quarter of her life, but a year to a middle-aged mother is but a 40th of the life she’s lived overall. Moments become more and more fleeting.