I remember waking up some days not knowing where I was, to the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the distant sound of Tom and Jerry on the television. These were the summers of my early childhood, the lazy mornings spent in Kathy’s apartment. Standing at 5’ 6” in heels, tights, a grey pencil skirt, a white knitted cardigan over a cashmere sweater, pearl earrings, and an auburn updo, Kathy looked like one of those old Hollywood actresses who simply refused to let age touch her. She’d see me walk into the kitchen, give me a kiss on the forehead, and make me a bowl of Cheerios while I joined my brother to watch cartoons. In her living room, I was transported to a whole ‘nother world, traveling back in time to the 1940s: the dark wallpaper, that antique smell, the plush, soft brown carpet. There were these lamps with these weird diamond-like decorations hanging from them. I loved taking them off and observing how shiny each one was, almost like if I stared hard enough, I could see into the future. I wish.

As I stroll down the block of my old apartment building, I think of her, the life she lived, and the selflessness she exuded. When my father had been diagnosed with brain cancer, my mother had to work longer shifts to provide for our family, visiting him at the hospital whenever she could. Because of this, she had to find someone who would watch over her two young kids during those absences. Seeing her dilemma, my mother’s long time friend and next-door neighbor, Kathy, offered to look after us, practically becoming our second mother. After breakfast, we’d wait for her to get ready and then follow her out into the street with a grocery cart, latching on to her wrinkled hands. On the nicest days, she’d take us to the Toys R Us on 82^nd Street, saying, “Now ya can each get somethin’ fuh five dollas!” with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes I’d see a toy that cost eight or ten dollars—something that I’d really like—and ask her if I could get it. And even though she was retired from her job, she’d buy us what we wanted every time.

Overhead, the 7 train roars by, and Colombian pastries from the bakery to the left saturate my nose. I pass by electronics and shoe stores; in front of one of them, a lady selling churros rings a bell every couple minutes. Making a right at Roosevelt and 82^nd, I see the pharmacy’s big bold sign that once read “Genovese”, though Kathy still called it Genovese even after it was renamed Eckerd and later Rite Aid. The Toys R Us is gone, replaced by a T-Mobile store, and a City Jeans has opened up where Hallmark used to be. Going further down the street, I reach 37^th Ave., and make a left towards the corner deli, passing by one of the few restaurants that’s been around since before I was born, Jahn’s. Briefly peering into the diner, I remember the countless summer afternoons spent sharing a sundae with my brother while Kathy caught up with the waitress. Though most of the staff has changed, the restaurant seems to look the same from what I can tell. Now, as I go into the deli and order a lamb gyro, I recall Kathy’s voice asking Sal for a pound of salami over the counter, back when the store was known as Italian Farms, or Sal’s, as she called it.

Like most of Jackson Heights’ earliest immigrants, Kathy had completely lost her original British accent, mainly as a result of being married to an Italian man and immersing herself in his family’s culture. She’d have coffee for breakfast, tea and biscuits for lunch, and spaghetti for dinner. On her dresser were numerous black and white photographs of her husband in his Navy uniform. In her bedroom closet was a faded American flag, about five feet long and four feet wide when unfolded. I’d often wrap the flag around myself when playing pretend with my brother, or use it to make forts. I was always amazed by the sheer size of it, as well as the rarity of such an object. Colombian flags, Ecuadorian flags, and Mexican flags were everywhere in the neighborhood, even then. But American flags, you had to look for.

At the time, Kathy knew many of Jackson Heights’ other longtime residents and storeowners by name, and through her, they came to know us. I barely see any of these people anymore, their friendly expressions replaced by indifferent and unfamiliar ones, the large family businesses taken over by smaller ones of the recently immigrated. In a short period of only twelve years, everything has changed, and as I take a bite out of my Middle Eastern meal, I find myself struggling to find a connection with my surroundings. The part of her that lives on in me misses the old Jackson Heights, where corded phones were bought from RadioShack, rather than iPhones from T-Mobile; where toy stores were always crowded and birthday cards cost less than a dollar, plus a free lollipop from the man at the cash register.

I walk on, making my way home, all the while picturing a Kathy in her mid-thirties walking these very streets. I glance at the Asian restaurants that begin to appear on 78^th St., wondering if they were once ice cream parlors or barbershops that she knew when she was younger. And as I look more and more into the glass windows of places such as Aruni Thai and Spicy Shallot, I start to realize that my reflection is not too different from the faces of the workers inside, that we share the same role in shaping a newer, more diverse Jackson Heights—a role I was given the moment my mother stepped off the plane from the Philippines. Coming to the entrance of my building, I hold the front door open for an elderly Indian woman and go to the elevator, where I am greeted by one of our neighbors. She talks to me in my mother’s tongue, forgetting that I can’t speak the language, and we get off at the 5^th floor, where a mix of Filipino and Indian cuisine leaks out from under every door. We say goodbye as I turn the key to our apartment, suddenly welcomed by the mouth-watering smell of chicken adobo. I think faintly about Kathy and her strong coffee, about flags and the power of time. And while I still don’t know which roots to call my own, I look out the window at the great mosaic of the city, finally feeling like all of me is where it belongs.