Coney Island and the New York We Left Behind
The photo has hung on every refrigerator we’ve shared as a couple. Eight-by-ten and glossy, its white paper frame grows more yellow with each passing year.
There she is, her hands white-knuckled around the safety bar, her upper body almost doubled over as if that might provide some protection should the Cyclone’s old white wood finally snap after almost a century of fun. Her eyes are closed tight, teeth clenched shut, waiting for the first drop to rise in her lower stomach. She does not like this.
There I am, nearly twice her size, a smile as wide as the Atlantic that stretches out behind us. The rush of wind as the creaky coaster’s ancient first car crests the hill and plunges down that famous first drop, my short hair blown back over my head. I love this.
Coney Island is the site of many moments in the story of our relationship. Me meeting her at the finish of many a Brooklyn Half Marathon with hands full of Nathan’s and bottles of water. Her indulging my insatiable appetite for the smell of sea air and fresh clams on the half shell. We marked every Valentine’s Day with a pizza pilgrimage, starting at Lombardi’s, where Spring Street meets the…
