Last Sunday, we returned to Brooklyn for the first time since our move. Our destination was Park Slope, where we’d planned brunch at our friends’ new apartment. The moment we parked the car and stepped onto the sidewalk, we looked at each other—and the only way to describe our reaction was Oh, no, we really miss it here.
The feeling only intensified. It was wonderful to see our friends, whom we hadn’t seen since this summer; Lucia and her friend reunited like they’d seen each other yesterday, running off to play by themselves (with Greta toddling after). After brunch, we walked up 5th Avenue, passing familiar spots and new arrivals, Lucia and her friend running ahead, hand in hand. We walked past our old apartment—Lucia remembered which brownstone it was, and ran up the stoop steps. Greta fell asleep in the stroller. We stopped at a favorite playground; Andrew bought a dozen bagels to take home; and then it was time to go.
We were home in half an hour, a ridiculously easy drive to an entirely different planet. My feelings that day were, I have to say, hard to define. I miss Park Slope. I love Park Slope. I can see so many great things about life in Park Slope. But at the same time, I just can’t see us living there anymore. We’d spent the previous day buying a Christmas tree and stringing lights around the porch railing—and it was a lovely day, and our house looked beautiful, and you can see the Christmas tree through the window. It’s been a rough few weeks as home owners, but I’m (pretty) certain that this is where we need to be.