In Amsterdam

The pain has to go somewhere and so I let it collect and bite at my ankles like a feral squirrel or one of those awful, tiny, yappy dogs, chewing on my socks and the hem of too-short blue jeans that I only wear because they fit well at the waist and nowhere else. I bleed a little from the nips of it, spots appearing on the white of my Hanes socks, a small whisper of death as a promise never too far from the inside of my ears and nose. I think about the powder and instead reach for a tea.

In Amsterdam, I am jetlagged.

When I can finally rest, my joints swell and I sit in a baby-pink cafe drinking a four Euro ginger tea, emailing Soho House and cosplaying a different life on another continent.

But I know where I belong and it’s in the weeds and bushes, softly bruised and beaten like the apples I used to eat from the muddy ground at my grandmother’s house in southwestern Russia.

Something about being back in Europe transports me to the past. I walk around with a lump in my throat all week; you tell me everything is fine. I try to swallow the plum pit but end up with a pocketful of carbs— beignets, pretzels, a giant, cream-filled pistachio croissant I inhale with a sick cocktail of glee and regret. I fear that no matter how much I age, I will still feel It.