Spring’s slow climb to higher temperatures, today, doesn’t exist. Nothing but summer-kissed heat and humidity in the air. Imposed straight hair showing its true wavy self with sunscreen and melting chapstick inside a pocket that isn’t yours. The cherry blossom trees of Park Slope have fully bloomed and the whole borough pours into Prospect Park as if it’s the only place to go and feel the sun. This is the New York City your friends always imagined, but it’s the empty Bushwick street with its sick and filthy power plant, vacant buildings, and art walls that feel like home: the struggle within raw complexity and a hopeful veneer of possibility. That something might happen. That you might be in the right place. That you are only a short distant away between a sad or happy song. Summer never seems long enough and the wait, cold and forever. But sit on any sunny sidewalk bench and remember that you’d have this small moment of joy again and again. That you’d take off your sunglasses, you’d take off your sweater, and you’d keep stripping until you find that pool in the pavement. Even if only a puddle fried small by the blazing sun. You’d think of the morning you said goodbye. You’d say the word grief. Then you’d let it live somewhere else.