Summer in New York

That’s a fire dog

The maple leaves in Seward Park haven’t started to senesce, but the Tai Chi regulars are bundled in sweaters and the high schoolers are back-to-school, huddled around the trash bins with New York hip hop — the type I might run to but am no longer cool enough to name — rattling their JBL speaker.

White hair blue hair

The heritage oaks lining Henry Street block the August sun as I sip a morning coffee. Behind me, a woman with white hair scoots on a walker up the sidewalk. Across the street, a woman with blue hair dashes with a terrier through the crosswalk. The three meet on the corner.

Spike

“His name was Spike. He died last year. In a house fire.”

She sighs into her chair, adjusting her purse on her empty table as she looks down Ludlow. I want to ask what happened, where, how, but I don’t. One of the tricks trauma plays, a friend once said, is that it forces you to relive it.

Young & Restless

There he is, smirking on the front page. This kid I’ve seen at Washington Square all summer, kickflipping down the five-stair, grinding underneath some Italian general’s disapproving bronze stare. I tilt the photo sideways. It has to be him — loose cargo pants, scuffed high tops, bleached locs like…