Andromeda has always loved the West. The Upper West Side, West End Avenue, Central Park West, the West Village. She knows all about West: that would be the part of Manhattan on the left if you’re looking at the subway map (which you might have to do if you’re riding a train other than the 1/2/3); West, as in West Side Story; West means the sun setting behind New Jersey, turning the landmarked facades of Riverside Drive to gold.

But Andromeda is learning a whole new meaning of West. After living her entire life in NYC, she has been made an offer she can’t refuse, and now she’s off to begin a new adventure in Phoenix, Arizona. Arizona? She had to look it up. How will she be received there? Will she have anything in common with the Phoenicians? Will she ever feel safe without the protective cover of tall buildings on either side? Will she have to learn to drive? Will she be expected to smile? She thinks it’s good to try new things and places, but she suspects she will always be a New Yorker at heart.

Just as she was gazing out over the Hudson one last time, thinking lyrically about New York, a passing cyclist called out “YASS, little animal!” at her as he sped by.

Andromeda has never flown on an airplane, but she’s prepared: she has easily-slipped-on-and-off shoes, her neck pillow, and a TSA-compliant plastic bag (she doesn’t have any liquids to carry on, but she is intrigued by the idea of the bag). Andromeda is ready.

Goodbye, NYC.

Andromeda is made out of an old pair of cotton pants. Her top and skirt are cut from a sock, and her vest is made from jeans. She is practical, machine-washable, intended for real use. Born to travel.

Her backpack is made from more Halloween costume scraps (my daughter’s wizard robe, in this case). Her wheelie bag is a tea box and pleather from a notebook cover, its wheels came from a (finally) (recently) discarded toy truck that belonged to my son. Those cheap toys, that always seemed to break when you didn’t want them to (like, when they were lying in the middle of the living room rug and you stepped on them), prove annoyingly sturdy when you actually need their parts—my son (now 22 years old) pried apart his little cement mixer for me with a flathead screwdriver.

Goodbye, my children’s childhoods.