Butterflies

The monarch butterflies have returned to the heather garden. They chase each other in pairs or flit about singley, lighting up the garden with a mosaic of orange colored glass. The lavender is abuzz with overgrown bumblebees. They hide amongst the purple flowers and you have to be careful when running your hand over them to catch the scent. The garden is nearing its peak with layer on layer of green. Purple and yellow flowers contrast intermittent bursts of red, and the roses have been blooming uninterrupted for weeks. The tiger lillies have pounced on the hill near the subway stop, turning it into a field of orange. Children stand with boisterous expectation at the Mr. Softee icecream truck just outside the subway stop, then continue into the park with glee, icecream quickly melting and dripping down their chins. I wish these days could last forever.

Keep Me Close

Yesterday on the way to work I walked past an apartment building whose service door was propped open. On the side of the door that normally faces the inside someone had written, "KEEP ME CLOSE", in rough white lettering against a black background. I stopped and looked through the narrow corridor leading inside the building. It was a sunny day. The brightness of the outside contrasting with the shadows of the corridor reminded me of the narrow medieval passageways of Southern Europe. I felt the same wonder as when I visited Italy and Spain, when I had been tempted to stop at every open door and peer into the treasures inside. Then I looked at the door again: KEEP ME CLOSE had a completely different meaning without the final "d". What would have been a statement of exclusion (keep me closed) had been transformed into a welcome: Keep me close, don't let me go.

The Cloisters

Today the sun appeared nearly all day after weeks of rain and clouds. I went to The Cloisters and sat in the herb garden for hours. The quince trees now have little green jewels of fruits that will develop into yellow globes by fall. The pear tree has climbed its multi-pronged trellis and covers one of the walls with mature green leaves. The thistle has overgrown its bed and overhangs one of the walks with prickly determination. But what I most covet is a small potted pomegranate dotted with brilliant red flowers trying to become miniature fruits. The sun's warmth reminded of California. For once I forgot about skin damage and sat in direct sunlight watching tourists and locals absorb the calm. The Cloisters affect everyone the same: stress melts away. When I returned home, I congratulated myself for having developed sunburned shoulders for the first time this summer.

Newspaper Man

For the last year I have been passing the Newspaper Man on the way to work in the morning. He stands at the entrance to the subway, and on sunny days he sets up shop at the top of the stairs near the racket of the bus stop. On rainy days he displays his papers-- The Daily News, The New York Times-- far enough removed from the double doors to keep the papers safe from encroaching puddles. When we first met, he would look at me shyly, then quickly glance away without uttering a word. But he is there every morning, and it seemed unfriendly not to say hi to each other. Throughout the year (cold, unending winter-- he was still there), we exchanged quick hellos, nothing more. His voice is soft, accented with Africa. This morning, after weeks of rain and humidity, the air was thinner, the mood lighter. Spontaneously he said, "Good morning, how are you?" I felt a little triumph-- previously I had been the one initiating the hellos.

Early Summer?

New York is refusing to allow summer in. For weeks we have had clouds and rain. Forecasters have predicted thunderstorms for this evening, and the air sags with humidity. But yesterday, the sun made an appearance, accompanied by a fresh breeze straight off the ocean. I sat near the Heather Garden, and listened to a free concert: a string quartet with the Hudson as the backdrop. Pink roses spray painted the hillside behind me, and I laid on the grass gazing thankfully at the clear blue sky. That evening, the opera man, his denim shirt still stretching over a magnificent beer belly, sat on the hillside in his fold-up chair. As he drank his nightly wine, opera followed the quartet, cascading down the hillside to the Hudson.

Sour Face

While walking in the Heather Garden, I have sometimes passed a thin elderly woman. Her thick white hair is always pulled into a loose ponytail with escaping wisps of hair dangling beside her face. With brows knit in concentration and the corners of her mouth turned abruptly downward at ninety degrees, she appears preoccupied. She walks hurriedly in white running shoes, as if late for an important meeting. Her arms swing forcefully, propelling her onward. Occasionally I see her with a man, whose soft face forms the yang to her hard expression. I have wondered, how could a woman with such a sour face attract friends, let alone a man? But there he is, keeping up with her, though with more relaxation.

The other day was radiant with late spring sun, and I strolled slowly, admiring the freshly sprung roses in the Heather Garden. Along came the woman, full of hustle and bustle. Overcome by the beauty of the garden, she burst out at me, "I've lived here since I was a child!" It surprised me. I had invented stories about her, but not imagined this detail. I replied, "Must have changed a lot." Her simple reply: "Yes, yes it has." And then she was off, as abruptly as ever. Since then, I have noticed her stopping to talk briefly to others. It is something new for her, or perhaps I had failed to notice it before. When I pass her on the street, she continues to walk quickly past, her eyebrows knit tightly together. I try to catch her eye, but since that one occasion have been unsuccessful. It might take another chance encounter in the Heather Garden. The butterfly bushes will soon bloom and timing is everything.

Evan

Wednesday night I walked three blocks south to visit my friend Sarah and her five month old son Evan. Sarah prepared fish tacos as I sat at the kitchen table keeping her company. I held little Evan on my lap and gently poked his Buddha belly. At first he seemed not to mind, but soon grew squirmy. I turned him around to face me. His face lit up in delight, his eyes big as saucers and directed straight at my chest (reminiscent of my fifty-something super who can't help himself when he sees a pretty girl in a tight tanktop). Evan, overcome with excitement, grabbed fistfuls of my hair. Embarrassed, I pretended that he was distracted by my long curls. Sarah laughed and said "No sense in pretending. Things are really transparent at his age." Some things are hard-wired nearly from birth.