The Windows
New York | Spring 2024
Calling “True North”
The first memory of my father’s watch is from an age I don’t remember. I was in a car seat in the back, buckled in. He was playing my favorite album and driving in the rain. He wore it almost every day until the day he retired. I didn’t even know what brand it was until I was sixteen. To me, it didn’t really matter; it was the time my family ran on. The first time he ever took me to visit New York, he showed me the one other watch he would ever consider buying. He never did; the watch his Dad passed down to him was too special. That watch is getting passed down to me, and I dread the day it will be mine.
My parents met when they were both just college students, by the school fountain before class. When they were first married and getting started, they would host dinner after work. Their friends would come over and they’d cook or do a potluck, play poker, Scrabble, chess, or board games. Dad must’ve been putting on records, given the timing. Mom must’ve been laughing at something outrageous, narrating, or breaking out ice cream for dessert. I’ve always loved their story and the beautiful life that they built together. For me, that was always the dream.
~
The first time I walked into the tower, the walls were bare and the season was cold. Just getting in from the day, I found my mom in the empty living room, arms wide open.
"Welcome home!" my mother buzzed.
"HA!" my dad called from the bedroom, looking down at a compass. "Just as I thought..." and then out through the windows— "A True North!"
As I walked into their arms, he added, "The acoustics should be pretty good! You could even get a second speaker, if you want surround sound! It’d sound great!"
My parents hadn’t seen the place yet. They had offered to wait, but I wanted to give them a moment of quiet. No matter how old I grew, I would always be their child. I knew after running my last marathon that I wanted them there when I walked through the door. I had been in the city for almost five years—a summer city internship and an early graduation had my career running before most. I had successfully launched, and it cost me quite a bit of quality time with my family. My sister’s wedding was planned for the summer, and the search for a home had shown me how hard it was for me to get an hour to myself. I was running on a low battery mode and needed to slow down. There is a marathon time, and then there is the Olympic clock. That was all I knew before I met my husband.
Under new leadership, my time was blown in every direction, as she liked to pivot. With a marathon in sight, I fell sick with a fever and the flu. When I had returned from a rare three-day rest, my leader directed me down a path, unable to make eye contact. There, my first Mentor sat to dismiss me. Time had created distance. I looked down at the paper, silent. My responsibilities had multiplied, and my requests for a re-evaluation in rank and additional help had been brushed to the side.
When you start as early as nineteen in an industry where your family doesn’t have a banner, you’re lucky to get paid. A college credit course equated to half of a class. I had done three in a summer, in addition to nannying. The best programs paid and had educational seminars that explored every path. You met with and learned from every department. And they fed you. It had prepared me well for my title. Time was literally money. How do you spend it? Who do you spend it with? How much do you give? How much do you get? When you start, anywhere—you write, you read, you write again, does it meet the expectations set? Is it what you truly hoped for? When you look down at the paper, does it feel like what you and your family are worth? Agreeing to a seat at a house’s table means time away from home. Does it look and feel the way it should? Does the path lead to what you want? Does it lead you back home?—or did you hesitate?
The spirit of the whole village had grown tired and weary. I couldn’t fight the thought,
I just want to go home.
Still light-headed from the fever, I checked the date, and my Mentor announced the day.
We stood face to face for the last time, and I whispered my last words,
"Thank you."
Her eyes widened before she echoed it back, and when the doors finally closed, I felt a tear fall down my face. I had held on long enough to obtain the keys to my first home, and I was ready to let go. I decided to spend my time cooking and contemplating what should go on blank walls and blank paper.
All while facing True North.
~
I’ve always wanted to make a photo album of my life in New York. I wanted something to put on the coffee table and flip through, with silly quotes and anecdotes. The first time I ever looked at my husband’s watch, it was the watch my dad pointed to in New York. We were sitting just outside of where True North was called. Right where my mom and my sister and all of my friends joked,
"Maybe you’ll find your husband out there."
When I told him I wanted to write, he said,
"I can’t wait to read it."
And for the first time, I wanted to share it with someone. Even if it never got published. Even if it just ended up on our coffee table, for the next generation to read and say,
"This was Mom and Dad’s love story."
A Love Letter
Written with Honey
