ordinary september monday

Today held a breeze whispering Summer's end. I'll admit said breeze was so warm that it couldn't quite be singularized as a harbinger of Fall- but, autumnal lover that I am, I pulled out a rust sweater to wear as if to tell the world my favorite season is here now (if not soon). I sit on my bed now, sipping my first hot chocolate of the season, candle alight, Agnes Obel serenading me as I write. A stubborn act of resistance to the still toasty September weather, you could say.

My day was sweet and slow. If anything, it was emblematic of many of my days here: an ordinary Monday. Yet it was filled with sights aplenty- sights I don't want to forget, nor allow to drift toward oblivion.

If my one-day children are anything like their mother, they'll ask all about the days I lived in New York, at a time when they were but a distant idea, a mere wish on my breath. And they'll ask about every little detail making up the wondrous whole of this season of my life: what was it like? who did you notice? what did that taste like? how did it all make you feel? 

So I'll revisit this ordinary September Monday in New York, recognizing the day will come where it is not as fresh and familiar to my mind as now. Hopefully, a written list of the various sights which marked my comings and goings will answer any question or rectify any blurry memory.

Things not to forget:

• A windowsill, covered in books. 
• Morning light streaming into my bedroom (my world). 
• My day's outfit, draped over a chair -carefully selected the night before. 
• Oats, made in the dimness of a silent kitchen. 
• Coffee, with a dash of milk. 
• The daily jingle of keys. 
• Neighbors, ever so friendly, proclaiming enthusiasm at the realization of my Spanish (albeit limited): "Señorita, ¿hablas español? ¿Por qué no lo dijiste?" 
• The elevator, smelling of rust and humidity and, me, holding my breath all six floors down (funny, how even the unpleasant things are truer than true). 
• The creek of our courtyard gate. 
• Litter, scattered everywhere on my block. 
• Flowers, planted everywhere on my block. 
• 4 train, downtown, toward Utica Avenue: 2 minutes.
• Island Songs, by Ólafur Arnalds, on my commute. 
• A grin-covered little boy, perched in the train window, small hands and nose pressed upon the glass.
• A vacant seat, as I have every morning (that is to say: an invitation to open a book). 
• The Glass Castle, settled atop my knees, for the reading. 
• The doormen at the office building, together singing "Morning!" to the stream of workers who enter. 
• The welcoming smiles of all four other members of my team (sweet, sweet humans). 
• Emails and typing and files and reports. 
• Writing a feature story about our grantees: women of strength and resilience and valor (me, positively inspired)
• Louis and Ella, on my walk to Bryant Park along 42nd. 
• Strolling past Grand Central (the realization: when has strolling past Grand Central become a normal thing to me?!). 
• A couple in work attire, bashfully kissing outside an office building. 
• The New York City Opera, performing in the park (a gratuitous treat for my lunch break). 
• Eating leftover salmon (the first I've ever baked- with dill and lemon zest and garlic, a true feast). 
• The gardens surrounding the public library, abloom. 
• Booking tickets for a jazz show with colleagues. 
• Other colleagues, encouraging me in my writing.  
• My boss, gifting me with a coaster from her recent trip to Oregon. 
• The freeing feeling of a work day's end. 
• Already dreaming up weekend plans: Battery park? Astoria? Fort Greene? 
• An old man, holding a dozen gold balloons- undoubtedly off to celebrate a special someone. 
• Friendly associates at the post office in Grand Central. 
• Stamps for thank-you notes, on their way. 
• A businessman, holding a colorful bouquet of dahlias and eucalyptus (just because? an anniversary? an apology? a first date?) 
• 4 train, uptown, toward Woodlawn: 3 minutes.
• Next stop: Fordham Road. 
• A vacant seat, a rare evening occurrence (that is to say: another invitation to open a book). 
• Pulling out a yoga mat for some exercising, because moving makes me better. 
• Feta and onions and tomatoes and lettuce, chopped and made ready for dinner. 
• Conversations with roommates- with Carissa, about church and the youth she works with... with Adeline, about family and dreams and God's intricacies in bringing her, a friend from Montreal, to apply to live in my New York apartment (of all places in this city!). 
• Fresh fruits, from the bodega. 
• The sunset outside our living room window, against the bricks of our building. 
• "I love you." from the boy, typed thousands of miles away. 
• A long call with my sweet family.
• Carving out the time to write, come night. 

An (extra)ordinary Monday in New York, indeed.