Steady and strong, my feet pound against the ground, bounce off cement, press down firmly and stomp again, on grass, dirt, dry leaves, mud. Trailblazing along the edge of the lake, more steady with every breath, more relaxed in my gaze as the minutes go by, my body moves almost by itself, allowing me the luxury of taking it in: the endless green of the park, the trees. Dry gray branches crisscross forming a messy grid against the immense and placid turquoise sky. Little thoughts let themselves in through the liquid openings, cutting across my rhythmic breathing.

Wiry brown curls siempre, siempre in place, tight against his head. Wisps of white give them warm light. Strong athletic build, but unassuming. Always carefully dressed. Most basic colors only on the taut body I learned to know– black, brown, navy blue-- but not conservative. Making me feel him as solid as the colors, as comforting and clean as their smells of softener and soap. The giant white shirt, worn out and full of holes, in which I sleep, still.

I think about him all the time. I breathe and I think, open my closet and think, glance at the book, put on the running shoes or the pink glass earrings he gave me, as I think. In my mind I wander all over places we have been, real and imagined. Everywhere I turn, the vivid, unflinching memory of him is there for me to reach out and touch.

“Your break up was a blessing in disguise,” my friends repeat day after day. Their lovely logical arguments, crystal clear reasons --and there are so many-- are undeniable. And I hate them all. Why couldn’t we stay together? Where did our love and care for each other go? I still don’t understand. I know so many things so clearly, yet none of them makes any sense when I wake up in the morning and remember the stirrings under the cover, the soft brush of skin against skin. When I find old notes behind the kitchen counter --“Good Morning, beautiful baby, sorry I woke you this morning, went out for a run, see you soon, love, M.”-- or by accident stumble upon dedications and letters in books I flap open --“For my beautiful girlfriend Marcela, because you love trees and I love you, Merry Christmas ”-- I realize with horror that the memory of him isn’t withering away as it’s supposed to. Quite the contrary, it seems to be growing into a breed of its own, its roots anchored more strongly every day in dusty hidden places. Finding a permanent place in the pit of my stomach.

Every weekend we ride swiftly along the dirt road towards the beach, past endless rows of corn. They are a little taller every time, and it is humbling and magical to notice the smallest growth, the only thing that changes in this landscape marked by the cadence of repetitive visits and an unmoving radiant sun. One of these days towards the end of the summer they will have reached their full height, and we will eat them, almost raw, their crunchy sweetness overwhelming our summer-sharpened senses.

We were together four years. During that time I agonized over how being with an “American” would define me from then on, how it would eventually determine my sense of belonging to a place, to this place. It shook me to the core when I tried to imagine having a child with him -- here, in New York. Would that decision mean I would become a little “more American,” less whatever- it- is- I- am? Did being with him mean I would stay here forever and ever more, and give up the dream of some day leaving? What was the implication in regard to who I was or could become? Why did it matter so much? The question never left my mind, even though we never reached the point of making such binding, concrete plans about our lives together. Maybe my agony over this is why we never did. And yet there we were, together one holiday and birthday after another, finding ways of feeling at home with each other despite the differences.

In ten years that I have lived in New York I never made the conscious decision to stay. Like many immigrants, I arrived one day in this city, one thing led to the other, suddenly almost a lifetime went by and I found I was still here. I came telling myself it would just be a couple of years, that I would soon “go back”. I kept telling myself this, year after year, all the while suffering heart wrenching nostalgia for my own city and my people, but never daring to take the full step to go or to stay.
As I breathe in the cold morning air in Central Park, I revel at being here, at its sudden familiarity and its beauty. I walk along a path I have walked endless times before and realize with surprise that I feel a part of this -- at one with the other people walking and running, the landscape, the motion, the smells, the sky. The earth feels solid beneath my feet. The trees look so determined and forthcoming as I walk by, striking generous, voluptuous poses, like an invitation to dance, that I can’t help but think they are trying to tell me something. I am moved, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Despite my fear of commitment, being close, settling down, I now realize I was settling in, making a home in his companionship, doing all the things I thought I ran away from. I may not have decided to leave or stay, but I did traverse this relationship to arrive here, bound with a new connection to this earth and grass. I am alone, and sometimes lonely, but this rite of passage of sorts has left me more a part of this place than I could have ever imagined.

As I continue to walk and inhale deeply, I respond with my own arm movements to the new tree gestures I discover along the way. I realize that most of the trees I have been admiring are elms. There are so many of them, similar yet different, soaring above me into the sky. Together they create a startling landscape of endless little towers disappearing into the distance. They envelop me. As I turn to walk home, I notice a small nest atop one of the branches. Starling birds chirp noisily as I pass them by.

Marcela Goglio was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She lives in New York City.