The sky's arms open to embrace me, so small plodding across the Queensboro Bridge.
October 8th, 2013, 9am
It was 13.9°C. The breeze was light.
What pleasure it is, to live within walking distance of work. Of course, my definition of “walking distance” may not be the same as yours; I traverse three and a half miles, and I’m happy doing it, watching Western Queens, Roosevelt Island, and the East Side of Manhattan shift below me. Unless it is raining heavily or snowing, I walk. It started last year, in the wake of Sandy, when the forty-five minute jaunt became the most expedient option. Now, it is the best way to start my day, the best way to end it, the sky lighting up to blue or dimming to blackness, the river flowing as ever below. Not many join me, but we recognize one another as we pass: a young guy idles down the path, a swagger as he stops to look south, eyes flitting past the cars racing by; the woman in a blue wool coat, thumbing through a book in Japanese; the man with his button-up flung over his shoulder so as not to sweat through it in summer’s heat. But hey, we’re walking here. We have places to be.
Filed Under
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