Have some kids. New York City, maybe. Find an apartment that is full of people who are new to this place, like yourself, and judge them regularly, so that early on your kids learn the importance of self-hate. Kiss your wife on the teeth and take her sledding. Find a tree surrounded by pavement and watch as it changes with the seasons. Fruit born from nothing, dropped for nothing, rotting on the sidewalk, uneaten. Notice the suede underbelly of the tree’s leaves. Your grandfather holding a frog on its back. Stroking it gently, the soft white underbelly for good luck. “They do not mind,” he says, smiling, handing you the frog.

Eat day-old cake alone on Thursdays, since that is the day of the week your mother used to surprise you and your two older brothers with the barmbrack that she would make; and day-old cake is the closest thing to barmbrack that you can find here; and it is cold—so cold—and the cake tastes nothing like your mother’s barmbrack, unless you close your eyes and you focus on the texture, rather than the taste.

Eat day-old cake and struggle to remember the place that you came from. Lean against the tree with the fruit that is now collecting in the gutters. Think about all that you have left behind, and all that you have found.

Have some kids. Three boys. New York City, maybe. Find an apartment that is full of people who are new to this place, like yourself, and judge them regularly; and on Thursdays bring them the cake that you have learned love, the cake that reminds you of home, of green, rolling hills, so that someday your kids can learn the importance of texture.