February was when I first left my parents’ house. My only plan was to escape the beatings. There was no plan of where to stay, no plan to deal with the winter chill. I turned 16 under the hard lights of a late night greasy spoon, spending my last two dollars on a hamburger and getting out of the cold. Old enough to fuck, to work, to drop out of school. I knew that was what was expected of a girl alone, unprotected, unclaimed.

The ice of that winter, of those damaged ambitions, of so many nights in a thin coat and no bed is still conjurable. I am realizing just now, what a shock, it is nearly exactly 25 years later. Something in me must know the anniversary, because standing this morning on the stoop of the house that I own, buttoning my warm coat, I am squint-grinning into the brilliant morning sky.

At the corner there are spatters of blood rusting in the sun. Someone had a bad night, but I did not hear it, tucked into my bed in the room with red walls. I bob my head in greeting to Mr. K with his kufi on underneath his hoodie, sweeping in front of the mosque. The train is coming, I can feel the vibrations in my boots, hear the rumbling through the subway grates. A girl farther up the sidewalk does not want to miss it, she starts to run to the station. She is wearing a red coat and an orange skirt, and as she runs the white skin above her boot tops flashes in the light. I don’t want to run, I don’t need to, I just watch her go with her urgency, with her strong legs, with her bright colors, with how she makes herself beautiful.