The 1 train at 137th Street was almost empty this morning, which never happens, so obviously I got suspicious.
Empty subway car in September means either everyone's still on vacation or the universe is setting me up for something. Turned out it was just the light.
Have you noticed the light changes in September? It goes lower and honey-colored, slanting through the elevated tracks up in Harlem like it's trying to say goodbye politely. Summer doesn't crash out here. It just quietly starts folding its clothes.
I got off at 137th and walked instead of transferring. The fruit guy on Broadway had switched from watermelon to those first crisp apples, and I bought one I didn't need because buying fruit you don't need is my love language to myself.
My grandmother used to say you can feel a season leave before you can see it. Nani was right about everything, annoyingly, even from Ahmedabad, even now.
The 1 train at 137th is my little morning ritual. Same platform, same crack in the tile shaped like Gujarat if you squint, same man who does the newspaper crossword in pen like he has never once been wrong.
I love this city most in the in-between weeks. Not brutal August, not bitter December. Just this soft handoff where you still wear sandals but pack a cardigan in your tote out of superstition.
A kid on the platform was crying about going back to school and honestly, same. We're all mourning the version of ourselves who had nowhere to be.
By the time the next train came I'd eaten half the apple and decided September isn't sad, it's just honest. It tells you time is moving. August lets you pretend.
Summer's leaving on the uptown 1. I'm not chasing it this year.
Love,