On Philly, written on June 9, 2015:
I keep telling myself I need to stop having cottons for a heart, sentimental to a fault; but I walk these streets on a midday Tuesday feeling like I’m nineteen, twenty, twenty-one again – treading these streets with light footsteps, learning over and over, like gathering pebbles in a park, I’m recollecting memories of what it means to not just feel free but be freedom itself. Those heady years of firsts: learning to own up to my name after years of abhorrent mispronounced episodes; crumbling walls of mythical horizons and with that stepping over boundaries, unleashing worlds after worlds; endless Friday nights filled with laughter in the company of a myriad of characters who taught my heart the many definitions of love and above all else, learned to belong not just with others but with my authentic self. I walk these streets again as if picking up pieces of my early twenty-something self, left behind in a city I still can’t call my own and likewise can’t say I know in full, yet have loved and lived and grown. Ugh Philly, you’re turning my heart to mush. And I thought just a year ago, I’d bid you goodbye with an accepting heart. I walk these streets now older, more colored, but – just like last time, all the time: happy.
My footsteps are light.