I had Monday off and I spent it walking through Fort Tryon Park like a woman in a movie about her own feelings.
The A train all the way up to 190th and then the climb, and then — the light. There is a specific October light in New York that I wasn't ready for my first year here and still catch me off guard now.
Everything turns gold and honest. The leaves going red and orange over the Hudson. The Cloisters sitting up there like a secret. Old couples on benches. A kid in a puffer jacket losing his mind over a squirrel.
The October light does something to you. It makes you nostalgic for things that haven't even left yet.
In Ahmedabad we don't really have autumn. We have hot, less hot, and Diwali. The first time I watched a season actually change color here I cried a little on a park bench and blamed it on allergies.
I sat near the overlook for a long time. Called my Ba. She asked if I was eating properly. I said yes and lied about the second samosa. We talked about nothing, which is the best kind of talking.
There's a tenderness to October that I didn't expect to carry alone at twenty-four, eight thousand miles from the people who raised me. The beauty and the distance show up at the same time.
Growing up far from home means learning to let a pretty day hold both things. Joy and the missing. The gold light and the ache underneath it.
I walked back down as the sun went low over Jersey. Bought a hot chai from a cart that got it almost right.
The October light forgives you for feeling two things at once.
Go sit in a park this week. Let it be bittersweet. That's allowed.
Love,