Dear Washington DC,

It's almost time to say good-bye.

I remember my first time visiting you. It was very, very cold, and our long walk from one end of the city to another foreshadowed what would be our primary activity here: walking. Just the other day we wrapped our our last bit of free time here with a three hour walk from home to Woodley Park. And spicy crunchy tofu rolls.

You are the city that taught me about cities: crosswalks, subway systems, crazy people who shout at you for no reason. You are the city of Street Sense, striding government workers, and five hundred free museums. You are Capitol Hill Yoga and Eastern Market, Lo Loma and La Lomita Dos, The Devil Makes Three and Bonny Prince Billy. You are the city in which I learned the importance of loving your work. You are the city in which I learned that I could successfully avoid driving on any major interstate, with one exception, for almost four years. You are the city in which I spent three years relearning to write. You are the city (sort of) in which my baby was born.

I will remember your steamy summer nights, your icy winter winds, your rowhouses and their spiral staircases, your sudden thunderstorms, your not-that-tall buildings, your Metro exits blocked by plump tourists wearing American flag t-shirts. I will remember walking miles in the heat while my belly grew, and miles in the snow holding my bundled up daughter. I will remember as one the hundreds of dinners we've made, wine and music, the last leisurely pre-Amelia evenings. I will remember dark branches beside my upstairs window, sipping coffee and writing at my desk, Dean's music drifting into the room.

I will remember Goldie on her stoop, the jay in the evergreens, a thousand steps on the sidewalks.