In memory it seems a time of fire. The blood red sun sinking into the darkness of the city, the brutal heatwave that arrived with Hallie’s birth, the heat-dusted Hell’s Kitchen pavements I walked the days following, and the track fire on the N Line that forced us all to find a different way home.
This June has been different, the mornings wet and cool and the days pleasingly warm. We celebrated Hallie’s birthday with our friends in Astoria Park, dappled with shade and cooled by an East River breeze. We ate, we made ice cream, and, as Hallie was passed from arms to loving arms, my friend Ben talked of how amazing our neighborhood is. And he’s right. I have never in my adult life felt such a sense of community. I would have to go back to my childhood in the suburbs of Detroit where almost every house had a pack of kids, our dad’s all worked for the car companies, and our mothers drank their coffee and chatted while watching us play, to find anything even close. And yet here it is, not in some idyllic small town, as I always supposed, but smack dab in the middle of New York City, where the park, diners, library and bakeries of any thriving small town have combined with a diversity, density and immigrant spirit to create a place where the streets dance with friends and acquaintances and where, in this busiest of cities, I always have time to talk with my neighbors.
The secret ingredient in all this is, of course, the kids. Heath lives to introduce himself to people, often complete strangers, almost always winning a smile, if not a full blown converstaion. Hallie is more subtle, drawing people in with her beauty, her wave, and her pale blue eyes. For Hallie seems to have a great capacity for joy, and it’s a gift she freely shares with others. Any sadness or regret I felt at the time of her birth is certainly gone, seemingly burned away in those first few days, and the gentle happiness of having her in our lives has brushed away any remaining ashes.
Last night Hallie had a fever, which brought neither joy nor sleep to anyone. Amy and I took turns holding her until, finally, she fell asleep. Restless and warm, she kicked her way through the night, but when morning broke, gray and foggy, her fever had subsided. We arose, showered, dressed, and after a quick breakfast I kissed her goodbye, testing for the heat that was no longer there. Then I was out the door and into the mist, feeling the moisture on my clean morning face.
Playing in the City with Trains 
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