I walked out of my building on 133rd this morning and the air had changed. You know the one. The first cold morning. Not cold-cold, just enough to make you go oh, and hug your own arms for a second on the stoop.
Summer in New York ends abruptly. It doesn't taper. One day you're melting on the 2 train platform praying for a breeze, and the next the wind has an edge to it and everyone on the sidewalk looks a little more awake.
I got my coffee from Miguel at the bodega on Frederick Douglass, the one with the cat who owns the chip aisle. $2, light and sweet, in that blue Greek cup they only sell in New York and nowhere else on earth apparently. Miguel said finally, some weather, and I agreed like we'd both been waiting for a bus.
The first cold morning always makes me sentimental. In Ahmedabad we don't really do this. We have hot and less hot. This dramatic seasonal costume change is a New York thing I've fully adopted, like ordering an everything bagel or having strong opinions about which subway line betrayed me most recently. (The L. Always the L.)
Harlem in the early fall is my favorite version of Harlem. The brownstones look right in this light. Somebody was playing music out a window, some old soul record, and a man was sweeping his stoop, and it all felt like a scene I'd been let into rather than one I was watching.
The first cold morning is a promise. Of soup. Of the good jackets coming out of storage. Of that specific golden light that only shows up in October. Of chai actually making sense again.
I walked to the train slower than I needed to. Held the warm cup. Let the season change without rushing it.
Winter's coming for us. But not yet. Not yet.
Bundle up a little. September's just clearing its throat.
Love,