Practiced Hands
Dear Diary:
After a long, glorious walk in the summer New York sun, I took the Q train home. As I stood in the car with the train rattling on, I noticed a petite woman sitting nearby who was knitting intently.
Her needles pulled a single string of yarn from a bag on the floor while the square she was working on grew ever larger. These were practiced hands, I thought, and they were drawing the attention of other riders as well.
I put away my reading and gazed at her fingers as they moved with a speed and dexterity that I was surprised still existed in this world of mechanical perfection.
When the train got to my stop, I moved toward the door, and she looked up to see where we were. I gave her a broad smile and two thumbs up.
She smiled back shyly, and then cast her eyes back down to her work.
— George Donovan
A Piano in Bryant Park
Dear Diary:
Elegant ebony grand in afternoon sun,
awkwardly balanced on cobblestone,
amid benches, fountains, a great square of lawn.
Passers-by circle it cautiously, as they would
a fallen meteor. Its shiny keys synthetic, out of place
among the earthy greens and browns of the park.
Now a pianist, hair cinched back in a bun,
regal bearing, lowers her hands, begins.
A soprano, in white silk, sings
the still-fresh words of Walt Whitman,
launches them into summer air, where they mix
with the honks and sirens of Forty-second Street.
A duet of city and song, urban harmony
that ruffles senses as it soothes souls.
The sky darkens — storm clouds from the west
move in, veil the park in shadow.
Now the pianist squints at her score,
and the wind is a brutal page turner.
— Jimmy Roberts
Roses
Dear Diary:
A few years ago I was sitting in a crowded subway car one morning when an older woman got on holding a large bunch of roses.
She gestured to people on the train to see if they would buy one of the flowers. After being rejected by everyone, she stood wondering what to do.
A young man approached her. He was dressed well, as if on his way to work. He asked how much for the whole bunch.
Fifty dollars, the woman said.
He gave her $50 and proceeded to hand out roses to all the women on the car.
— Mary Herr
Red Hook Pool
Dear Diary:
I was going to the public pool in Red Hook and knew what I was in for.
I go at least once a summer, and it truly requires a moment of inspiration to summon the will to face the many hurdles there, including the long list of prohibited items.
Still, when I conjure up the image of the glistening water, the pool has an undeniable appeal. An outdoor, Olympic-size beauty, it takes up serious real estate in a city where space is at a premium.
Seagulls circle above, diving down occasionally to scoop the chlorinated water into their bills as they skim for their next meal. It’s obviously a miscalculation on their part since there is definitely no food allowed on the premises.
On this day, I passed through the front entrance and cruised through the locker room when I encountered four women in collared shirts with park department logos.
They looked at me hard.
No bags allowed, they said.
It’s not a bag, I said, crumpling the bag into a small ball that fit into my fist. I smiled.
No spray sunscreen allowed, they said.
I paused.
Why not? I asked.
They answered my question with a question: Is this your first time here?
No, I said. It’s not.
I looked each woman in the eye.
And I screw something up every time, I added.
They looked at one another other and shrugged.
OK, girl, we got you, they said.
And onto the pool deck I went.
— Marissa Pennington
That Scent
Dear Diary:
I was on my usual commute home from York Avenue to the Village. I had changed my schedule to later in the day and was finding the 6 p.m. hustle and bustle much more enjoyable than the 5 p.m. rush.
As I switched from the 6 to catch the express, I detected a wonderful scent. I looked around to determine where it was coming from as the express pulled in.
Luckily, the enjoyable smell, with notes of what seemed like vanilla, soft florals and maybe bergamot, followed me onto the train.
Taking a deeper breath — not something one typically does on a packed subway train — I realized the source of the scent was a woman to my left.
“Excuse me,” I said to her as the train arrived at my stop. “You smell amazing. What perfume are you wearing?”
She turned to me.
“I don’t wear perfume,” she said with a cheeky smile, her face flushed. “It must be Negronis.”
— Leila Baadarani
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