somebody's daughter

i spent much of the past weekend in new york city. i grew up there and my parents still live there so there's a part of me that always wants to say 'i went home' when i've been there. but it's not really true is it. 38/365

home stops being where your parents are and starts being where your kids are almost the minute you have kids. and still when my parents sold the place i grew up in four years ago i felt as if i'd been thrown out into the streets. naked. it sucked. and to be truthful, i don't think i'm really over it now. even then, nine years into being a mother myself, that apartment meant that a part of me could always be a child. preserved in pink and green wallpaper and ayn rand books, with photos and record albums all safely where i left them. it felt as if i was admitting, with each billy joel album i boxed up, that i would never again need my hair held back when i was sick. with each pile labeled 'toss' i filed a little bit more of my youth into the archives.

history. everything went from existing, to becoming past in one moment. but nothing really changed.

i am somebody's mother and mother trumps daughter. so when i'm afraid to fly no one comforts me and i get over it so they don't see. and if they're sick, well, you know how that one goes.

but when i visit my parents i'm someone's daughter. and even if it's not home, even if i don't know where they keep the extra towels, or how to operate the remote, i know if i get scared someone will hold my hand.

(some shots from the weekend in nyc)