The Pull

We just left New York after nearly a week there, and every time I go back, even after all these years away, I have the same impossible thought: I could live here again.

I’m not sure what kind of spell the city casts. Maybe it’s the people, the history, the culture, or the way every block seems to hold a story. I can never quite name the pull. I only know I feel it.

Or maybe it’s the pace. You walk faster there without deciding to. The sidewalk carries you. After a day, you stop noticing the noise; the moment you leave, you miss it. There is something honest about a place that never pretends to be calm.

We lived here in 2019, when Liam was only two. He won’t remember the apartment, the long winter, or the park we walked to most weekends. But I like to think the city stayed with him, tucked away in some quiet corner. This time, I got to watch him rediscover it.

I took him to a few places, but Times Square stopped him in his tracks. He looked up at the lights, the screens, and the crowds moving in every direction. I kept my hand on his shoulder and let him take it all in. I was so happy to be the one standing beside him.

The rest of the week, we just walked. We ate too much and let the days stretch longer than planned. Liam asked questions about everything. I answered what I could, and when I couldn’t, we…googled it.

Of course, nothing is perfect. There is trash on the streets. There are smells that should never mix. You wait too long for a table and pay too much for too little. None of it is easy. None of it is comfortable. Still, we ask for more. Still, I find myself counting the years until we can come back for good.

That is the strange part. Seven years have passed, and the city has not forgotten me. It lets you leave, but somehow it keeps your place. You step off the train, look around, and it feels as if you were never really gone.

Do you have a place like that, one that keeps calling you back, no matter how long you have been away?