My apartment is a maze of boxes. No place to sit and to write. But I've been writing stories in my head like I always do in New York. It's a place that asks you to hold still and look at things.

On the subway, I take out my notebook. I wonder about the boy with the bouquet of tulips in a paper bag, the girl chewing french fries one at a time, the women in leather boots, laughing as they ask for directions, and yes, I do know the way.

On a walk to the coffee shop, I put on my headphones. There's a song that says, "The city is my church." An elderly man opens the door for me. When he smiles, I smile too.

On the fire escape, I plant an herb garden. My fingernails are crusted with dirt. I save half the seeds for later. If they don't grow, it's okay.

I moved to New York a week ago.

This morning they started to sprout.