I Must Have Had "Soft Eyes"

The two bulldog puppies tumble over the redheaded toddler in their midst, just one more puppy to them, another playmate, another chew toy to gum. The toddler laughs like a maniac, even as the puppies knock him to the ground, and continues to laugh as he stuggles to sit up, fails, and is swarmed over by their enthusiastic, chubby, fuzzy bulks.

A crowd has gathered, sharing vicariously in the joy exuded by these three wonderful, loving little idiots, and as we're about to leave, a gentleman with whom we made eye contact earlier stops and calls me over to show me some pictures on his phone. I'm feeling particularly easy-going after witnessing such unabashed joy, and so I listen as he points to the pictures of huskies playing with a polar bear, saying, "So, you can tell when an animal, a dog, wants to play, because they have 'soft eyes.'"

Manhattanhenge

Walking past the park to meet Katie, I can feel the heat creeping up, like God focusing the sun to burn all us little ants under His omnipotent magnifying glass.

We walk East until we reach an intersection where we can watch the sun as it sets between the canyons of skyscrapers, and we're not alone. Crowds like pipers running into the receding tide of traffic dart into the middle of the street, cameras held high, madly photographing the firey demise of day with each red stoplight, and then dart back to the sidewalks, chased by the honks of irate drivers as the light turns green.

Katie takes a picture of the sunset as it appears on the phone of another person taking a picture of the sunset, while a lady walks through the impromptu party/good-natured riot pleading in confusion, "What's going on?"

I'm Just Bigger Than You

The doors open at Grand Central onto the usual cave of the subway platform, and we who are inside the train trying to get out are confronted by that grim wall of those on the outside of the train trying to get in, thus beginning the daily negotiation slash passive-aggressive war of us pushing past them to get out while they push in. Sometimes you get a crowd that has learned basic subway etiquette that stands aside to let us out, but today is, apparently not one of those days, and a small dark haired woman in front of me who hesitates for the briefest of moments provides just the breach needed for the hordes to begin their incursion, and what was an orderly exchange, like osmosis, devolves into a shoving match.

A thin blond woman with a nice handbag tries to thrust me aside with her yoga arms to no affect whatsoever. She stutter steps, without even looking at me, then goes around me as I make my way out, and I think, with some unwarranted measure of New York bravado, "Lady, if you try to walk through me, you're gonna bounce."

A Constant Disappointment

"No," my dad says, "I got a great deal on the rental car, so I'm going to pick it up as soon as we land."

"Okay," I say, "then why don't you not drive too far, and just stay in the hotel by the airport?"

He's fighting back his impatience and annoyance, but he manages to keep most of it out of his voice, saying, "No, Scott, the noise."

"Well, dad, then your guess is as good as mine."

My Responsibility

Brunch with Kevin's parents was delightful, and now to take the bus back to Park Slope and stroll in the memorial day sunshine. I can feel my anxiety rising, though, as we reach the intersection where Google has assured me the bus stop awaits - the streets are covered in scaffolding and trash, and I can't find exactly where we should stand. 

These people, my wife, my friend, his parents, are my responsibility; they're counting on me, and I can't find the bus stop, and we'll miss the bus, and it'll be all my fault!

"There it is," I say, picking out the sign for the bus stop from where they've hidden it behind a street sign, and I breathe easier, even though I'm sure nobody was worried but me.

Sometimes, Giving Up is Okay Too

The open meadow in Prospect Park is surrounded by trees that break up the gusting wind into swirling eddies and sudden lulls. We figure working together we'll be able to do better than those that have come before, but our best efforts come to naught, with the kite almost going up only to spin to the ground.

Finally, after enough of this, we lay on the ground watching the clouds coalesce and dissolve in silence far above us. "Look," says Katie, shading her eyes and pointing straight out into space, "that cloud has a rainbow."

Starting Over

I sit on the kitchen floor, surrounded by small piles of dirt and several small plastic pots, while Katie dances around me cooking dinner.  I'm repotting herbs that we bought earlier in the spring that have since become root-bound, along with an aloe I've carried around since before I moved to Brooklyn from Queens.

It's been awhile since I've allowed myself to really care for plants (the spindly aloe, especially, shows signs of having suffered under my recent neglect), but back at my old place in Queens, I used to have literally rooms full of them. The feel of the dirt under my fingernails and the smell of the soil is good, and reminds me that, when I pay attention to things, I take a great deal of pleasure from the small details of simply maintaining life - be it mine or something else's.