One.

I get to do things alone now. I practice writing this sentence. 
I can do things alone. I am able to do things alone. I am doing things alone. Why does it sounds lonely? The word alone seems small, and sad. But I do not feel those things as I write it.

I am alone. I feel this nostalgic freedom reserved for New York City. I breathed differently living there. For better, or for worse, and I certainly breathed differently visiting. Visiting. I used to go at lease once a year. Now it's been four years. The plane would touch down and I could inhale. I was released.

I can do what I want to do, when I want to do it. At times, and within reason as I am a mom to a toddler.

A coffee shop with my laptop and my latte feels like decadence. I came in unsteady, but I sit down, earthed.

I am reminded of a book my boy has, "My One Book". Little one lives in the house of one, he makes one bed, he drinks one drink, he hops one hop. You get the idea. One. One one one.

After nearly twenty years of long term relationships, one bleeding into the next, the oneness is...strange. There is no one by my side. No one will be there when I get home. My boy, my dog, of course. But I have no person.

Filling time these days is strange. I long to do everything. I bounce back and forth between needing company, and needed to be one.

It's okay, it's just taking a minute to crawl back into an old skin. A skin I've only tried on here and there, like in New York City.