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Today is my last day at this job.  When I moved to New York with nothing but a backpack and a naïve grin it was this job I so fortuitously stumbled into, and this job which made an apartment possible, made nice shoes and coffee through a straw all very real for me.  After exactly one year (I began following last year’s Memorial Day weekend and I depart just before this one’s), I’m wrapping up an experience in a neat little package, which our unique human chronology affords me.  ”One year.”  I’m intrigued by the entire depth of experience tucked inside the curves of the words.

What do I have now: an apartment in my name, a collection of objects and furniture with particular purposes, for the wealth of experience and age affords us the ability to buy new things for all the new needs we discover along the way, a bookshelf finally beginning its satisfying sag beneath the weight of what I’ve recently read, a new job serving kale salads and warm biscuits to the beaming patrons of the Chelsea High Line, a name for myself as a freelance private brunch chef (who could have guessed!?), an incredible boyfriend (almost harder to believe) who very nearly mirrors my vigor for culinary consumption, and a patch of lavender blooming on my windowsill.

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