Cranes are everywhere here. Clunky scaffolding and towering cranes obscure the city’s shine. I thought of you when I saw these and I thought of our conversations, our love/hate relationship with all they represent. There is no greater indication of change to a city than these, and change here feels bittersweet.

Aqua green veils cover the faces of buildings. Mouths, eyes, the whole face, leaving nothing exposed. I don’t know why, but that, coupled with a flock of giant, immovable steel cranes with their arms outstretched creates a strange poetry I can’t ignore. I’m not saying it’s beautiful—not quite there yet—I’m just saying it’s poetry. The funny thing is, I’m already a few days in, and the sight and feel of their presence is starting to feel as natural to the cityscape as tall grass in a field. You get used to it, I suppose. I’m almost tempted to call it a strange kind of beautiful, whatever that means, but like I said, I’m not quite there yet. The cranes promise to gift beauty when they leave. The thing is, they never depart, they just migrate to another part of town. I’m hopeful.

Remember when we used to sing together, you with the melody in mezzo soprano and me harmonizing in alto? Look at what we stumbled upon today. The conductor, you would have loved him. He used his whole body to conduct, but his arms did most of the work. He became those cranes, digging into those voices to unearth beauty from their lungs. Wings flap and move the air. Air vibrates and we call it music.

I remembered your voice and imagined you in the chorus, singing beside the woman in the back row with her hands clasped behind her back. After less than a minute of listening, I felt like a note in the weaving of our frequencies.

While practicing last night, a vivid memory of us came up. I don’t know why this one—maybe it was the yellowed sheet music I found that I thought I’d lost, or maybe it was the smell of my violin case. Whatever it was, I thought of the dairy cows in your yard and the barn behind the cowshed. That old barn whose large doors were open the whole year long, cottony cobwebs stuffed between the beams and thin cracks in the roof bringing in sliced light. Come summertime your brother would round up as many of us musicians as he could think of, as close to a hoe-down as one could have in rural Connecticut. 

We’d start off as the usual mash of sound. Tuning, scale runs, snippets of well-worn pieces from muscle memory. Once the music stands were up and the sheet music in place, we fell into place too, a bit jangly. The beauty of it was that we knew how imperfect we were and we laughed at ourselves. Which was more zealous, our playing or our laughter? We’d play until the stars were out and the crickets were as loud as us. 

Did I ever tell you that I kept finding grass and hay everywhere for a week afterwards? Tucked in the seams of my violin case, stuck on the inside of my jacket, clumped at the bottom of my purse. Holograms of these remembrances are faded and skipping but still vibrantly alive. Do you think our notes are still there in that barn? Or have they all been sopped up by the cobwebs? Or have they slipped through the cracks by now?

For the past two weeks I’ve passed by this wall, felt a jolt of excitement at seeing this shade of green, especially in the morning when the sun shines white like a camera flash that just stays on. I know it’s a rather boring wall, but that color is uplifting in a strange industrial kind of way.

Was it when we confessed our love of chlorophyllic shades that anchored us as friends? I think so. We declared a shared loathing for pastels and the shade of lima beans, but we adore the color of limes, grass, and evergreens. And I think you knew before I even said it that vetiver, that resinous, sweet and earthy grass, is one my favorites, both for its scent and beauty. I think of your green Doc Martins you lent me during my first NYC snow when I had no boots. I think of the grassy shade on the walls in that room in your apartment. To open the door and walk in felt like life was unfolding.

There’s nothing special about this wall, I know. It’s only the exterior of a storage space with a modern pop of color. Hugged up against the cold slate gray, this one is vibrancy. Nothing much to say about it except that colors remind. 

Took a little Sunday ride on the ferry. Today I went fishing for angles, shadows, and a little humanity too. But while there, I also found what I almost forgot about. The wind that pushed itself up against my mask and sunglasses reminded me of it. The breeze you catch on a boat is not the same as the one that glides through meadows or mountains. It is air tinted blue with a pinch of salt and oyster. 

Then I thought about barnacles on the underbelly, stickiness and glue, life that I don’t see. I’d missed the thick lacquer on benches, shiny wooden magnets that grip the sun. The warm bench in the shadow is the one the sun just left. Dream light crouches in corners and fabric creases, whatwith the wild wind flirting. Afloat on small waves, inching toward the port. I found luxury in the wind and the gentle ebb of a boat. During this brief ride from Manhattan to Governor’s Island, a memory of us on the ferry in the Stockholm archipelago floats by and in my mind, I wave back at us.

The tiny island from afar is here now, and not so tiny anymore. Walking down the ramp always feels cinematic. Pieces of a scene. I pan through a hyphenated sun-. Spots, rays, and glasses. Windblown hair, flip-flops, the metronome tk-tk-tk-tk-tk of bikes being walked instead of ridden, excited children pointing at things, lovey dovey couples, and picnic baskets. I zoom in on the popped collar in front of me, then cut to his girlfriend’s overbite as she speaks. She looks happy about whatever she’s talking about, but I don’t hear what she’s saying. Earbuds in, I’m listening to a playlist. “Post-Dream Float” is what I’ve named it. Suits the occasion while on a vessel that is doing just that. Floating.

Of the eight friends meeting at this location, I am the first to arrive. You and I have spoken about this before, and I already know what you’re thinking before I even write it. I find a shaded spot on a bench next to a trash can that has bees swarming around it, and I remember just then how much I dislike waiting. It’s not the act of waiting in itself; there are some things I enjoy waiting for, like tiny anticipations. But when waiting is paired with vulnerability, that’s when the air turns sour. Waiting, as in just standing there. Waiting, not as in impatience or the hastening of spirit. There is such a thing as arriving so early that it’s almost embarrassing. 

Here are a few pictures I took while waiting, walking, watching. I hoped a purpose for walking would find me, and it did. The camera had been waiting at the bottom of my bag, so I took it out and let it watch along. 

I see 

the shine of an

old volkswagen truck

a shine so bright it reflects

through gauze. 

The tent from arched branches

would not have existed 

had the sun not slid into place

at this hour.

I see

rays beam through branches 

translucent green bouquets 

burst and flare

like sunspots.  

I see

abandoned buildings 

chipped paint and

blemishes.

Faded guardians 

adored by climbing ivy

and rust-encrusted locks.

I see

tufts of grass

have filled the cracks

of broken pavement.

Not a tribe of blades

nor a crowd of lawn

just tufts.

And what I see 

in all of these things

is that none of them

are waiting.

They don’t wait.

They bask.

While talking on the phone the other day, you told me about the dirt roads in Alabama where you grew up. That the roads in my pictures reminded you of your childhood. I paused, not because I didn’t want to talk about it, but I suddenly felt endeared to your memory. I let your memory sink in to my present. We shared poetry for a few breaths.

From what I remember in my childhood visits to Alabama, the most vivid pictures that come alive are those long stretches of highway slicing though a landscape cottoned with trees. I remember the tall green puffiness of the countryside. That, coupled with the memory of the teenage me driving long stretches of interstate between Connecticut and Massachusetts, the surefire memory of it all is green. All of it lush and verdant. Where the verdant resides there is life and vibrancy. Where there is life there is love. Many years have passed since then, and it’s tucked beneath layers of happenings. But ever since then, green and I have always been kindred.

You ask me what it was like. It’s all still shrouded in haze, overexposed film in overlapping timelapse snippets. It’s not that I can’t come up with words to describe it, it’s that they don’t seem like enough. I wish memory could materialize so you could see it for yourself. I wish feeling could emblazon itself on your air so you could breath it in and let it course through your blood and veins. Any words I offer are as brief as these pictures.

But I can also boil it down to a feeling that I didn’t think I really had in me, not to this degree. This is a picture of a place where I relearned to love.