The first cold morning on the J train snuck up on me the way October always does. One day I'm in a linen dress pretending summer will last forever, the next I'm on the Marcy Avenue platform watching my breath leave my mouth like a tiny ghost.
I wasn't ready. I never am.
The J came screeching over the bridge, that gorgeous ugly rattle, and the whole car was full of people who had clearly also been caught off guard. Everyone in hoodies that weren't quite enough. A man two seats down blowing into his hands.
I pulled my scarf up and thought about my nani, who used to say October is when the world finally exhales. In Ahmedabad that meant Navratri was ending and winter was a rumor. Here it means the radiators start clanking at 2am and the bodega guy on Broadway finally restocks the good hot chai.
Speaking of. I got off at Essex and walked into my usual spot and the uncle there already had the kettle going. He didn't say anything. He just handed me the cup and nodded like we both understood something sacred had shifted.
The first cold morning on the J train is a specific kind of New York grief. You mourn the summer you didn't use enough. You mourn the rooftop evenings. But then you wrap both hands around a paper cup and remember that this city is best when it makes you slow down.
I walked the rest of the way to work through the Lower East Side, past the shuttered bars still sleeping off Saturday, past a woman selling mums on Delancey. The light was doing that low golden thing it only does in fall, slanting sideways between buildings.
I didn't mind being cold. Not really.
October, be gentle with me. I just got my coat out of storage.
Love,