"People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store, did I ever tell you that? It's a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap. Soon, it'll just be a memory. In fact, someone, some foolish person, will probably think it's a tribute to this city, the way it keeps changing on you, the way you can never count on it, or something. I know because that's the sort of thing I'm always saying." -You've Got Mail

The cell phone store across the street is now a pizza place.

Or maybe it used to be a nail salon. I can't remember. The neighborhood has changed so much over the last two years.

It shouldn't be too surprising to see the storefronts change so quickly in such a short amount of time. Life in New York City seems to happen faster than anywhere else. In one year, a building can be torn down, resurrected, and transformed; in one month, I've seen the corner deli change is name three times.

I suppose there's something poetic in watching the outside world change: the idea that nothing is permanent becomes a real, tangible truth, and it reminds me that I, too, have changed.

"'T' is for 'Traci.'"


My father picked up a square stuffed tiger and handed it to me as a baby on an early shopping trip. If it weren't for the triangular stripes on his face and the black 'T' on his stomach, he would be mistaken for an oddly-colored mouse.

My parents laughed at how strange the toy looked, but I wouldn't let it go--no matter how many flashy toys they tried to make dance in front of my face.

Tiggy has 22 strands of orange yarn sewn to the top of his head for hair. I took him everywhere as a child, and would braid his hair or tie it in knots as I listened to my sister tell my parents about her day or as I tried to fall asleep at night. As I grew older and my hair fell out, I stopped tugging at the orange yarn in fear my tiger would be bald someday too.

"He doesn't look like a tiger," my sister said once. I shrugged. Tiggy and I were kindred spirits, comrades against a world of judgement. It would never matter how much hair either of us had--or didn't have--on our heads.

Note: When I began writing about losing my hair as a child, I was surprised at how many detailed memories I had locked away in my brain. I think I got that ability from my mother (that, and my nose, apparently).

This is a new draft of an excerpt that I've shared online in the past. Writing is, after all, re-writing...right?

I bought a coat rack.

Whenever I lost a tooth, the Tooth Fairy generously left a dollar and a note on my Spottie Dottie stationary under my pillow. The notes were simple ("Wow!" and "Cool!") and I never thought my parents were behind it--not unlike Santa Claus, who I figured out fairly early on did not actually come down the chimney to leave gifts in the stockings.

I kept the notes after every visit, along with the detached tooth. "Why doesn't the Tooth Fairy take the tooth?" I asked my mom once. My other friends at school said the Tooth Fairy always took their teeth, but was there something wrong with mine?

"Parents can ask her to leave the teeth behind," my mom answered. "That way you can keep them as a little memory."

And we did: every little tooth was stored in a tiny plastic cup. Every time one fell out, I'd run to the cupboard where the teeth were stored and compare the size and shape, and think about which ones hurt when they fell out. But long after I stopped losing teeth, I looked back at the cup and didn't think about the pain of losing them. I only remembered the thrill that came with a visit from the Tooth Fairy (who, by the way, I was a true believer in until all of my baby teeth were gone) and how much fun it was to reflect with my mom about how fast I was growing up.

My mom is the kind of person to collect and cherish mementos: letters, photos, awards, etc. When my sister made her first art sale in high school, she framed a copy of the check and a dollar bill withdrawn from the bank the day my sister deposited the check.

It's sentimental, but it was a nice way to grow up: to be surrounded by memories that made us laugh, smile, feel loved. Even now as I look around my room in my apartment, I smile whenever I see the small incense set Christina sent me from Thailand two years ago, and I still laugh at some of the more ridiculous postcards on my packed postcard board that Cortney sent me from the road during her many travels.