Somewhere north of here*

*More self-indulgent moping below. You've been warned.

It's like what happens when you run into someone you have managed to forget exists: the widened eyes, the audible gasp, the blinked away tears and the abrupt pivot and near sprint to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible, praying that even though you saw them, they didn't see you.
Tonight, it was the Mr. Softee truck parked on the corner of Broad and Madison.
I'd been missing New York with the raw aching that always comes at this time of year. I pushed Mr. Independent's stroller through sparse crowds at the Second Street Festival and thought this is not San Gannero. And I just wanted to be there; I wanted it to be six years ago, with Debra and Sean and Marek, tasting meat on a stick for the first time, walking around taking photographs that disappeared when my laptop died, then heading for one of the six best margaritas in Manhattan, sharing pitchers and conversation for several hours.
The Second Street Festival sucking royally (too many smokers), Mr. Independent and I moseyed in and out of galleries on the First Fridays Artwalk. It wasn't an ideal outing for a stroller, but we made it work. I fed off the energy of the city, bought a bag that reminded me of the bag I carted around Europe for a summer, bought another bag that's a potential Christmas present for a niece, and stumbled into a gallery that had some very cool photographs of sights around town, and I bought two to hang in my living room. One is a picture of my favorite comfort food restaurant, and the other is of the restaurant where Husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. My living room is barren, and I wanted to support a local endeavor, spice up the decor, and show anyone who enters my living room that I heart my hometown.
I felt very smug and self-righteous, as if saying to myself I don't need New York. I love it here. This is where I want to be. This city is awesome as well. I walked out of the gallery, head held high, feeling not happy, but alive, at least. And, of course, it all changed two blocks later when I saw the truck. It really did knock the wind out of me because it wasn't something I expected to see, and it dredged the longing I carry around with me all the time, even at my happiest. It's a longing for the place, that city, that time.
The thing is, I love where I live. I love it deeply and often without any good reason. I feel wounded when someone insults it. I am proud of how bike-friendly and pedestrian friendly it is and how there's generally something interesting and kid-friendly going on. This is where I want to be. It really is. I don't think I'm just tricking myself. This is where I want to watch my kid grow up and where I want to settle into middle-aged monotony with Husband. We're slowly building ourselves social circles (I hope), and we are very happy here. I don't know I'd even choose to live in New York again, if given the option. I'm not sure it's the best place for Mr. Independent, and I am certain it is not the best place for Husband. But sometimes I wonder what might have been. I toy with where I'd be if my life had gone according to MY plan, and I'd stayed in New York after finishing graduate school. I idealize it because it's the unknown; the grass is always greener syndrome. In the movie Keeping the Faith, Ed Norton's character says something like People who live anywhere else, are, to a certain extent, kidding. Sometimes I feel that way about my life.
It feels like what I imagine getting over the break-up of a serious relationship would feel like (Husband is my first serious relationship, and I hope I don't ever lose that one). It hurts-a lot- at first, but then life continues, and the ache goes away except for occasional brief reminders: a glimpse of a passerby with the same hair color, a street sign that's a reminder of an inside joke, a first date restaurant. But those moments are rare, and while jarring, they pass, but not before once again, bringing up the what might have beens.
I've always wondered (worried) if the old cliche about never really getting over your first love is true. If it is, I'm screwed as a wife, and Richmond is screwed as my home.