I left this city at thirty nine and came back at fifty

I moved away for work in my late thirties, spent eleven years in a part of the country where I knew of exactly two people who did any of this and did not like either of them, and came back in March. Everybody I knew here has moved, aged out or gone quiet.

Fifty, the Bronx, in the apartment my aunt used to have, which is the only reason I can afford this city again. Six good years before I left and then a very long pause that was not a choice.

What I have discovered since coming back is that starting over at fifty is not the same as starting at thirty nine. Not because of anything physical. Because the thing that used to open doors was that people knew me, and eleven years is long enough that the knowing has entirely worn off. I am effectively new with a decade of experience nobody can verify.

So I am doing this the slow way. Writing properly, one at a time, saying plainly what I did before and how long ago. What I want is a long domestic arrangement rather than anything occasional. Standing duties, real usefulness, a place in an ordinary week. I can cook, I can fix most things, and I have no social life to compete with it, which is honest rather than sad.

I do not want to talk about the eleven years and I do not want anybody's sympathy about them. I was working. It was fine.