Yellow

Sometimes it feels like if you just got to New York you’re late to the party. You missed what made it what it is—the soul, the center of spellbound lore, a heyday of lofts filled with art. But then you find yourself in a bookstore on West 10th Street (so charming it’s obnoxious) skimming through picture books to mail off to friends who recently had babies. A gentleman in a navy coat and perfectly wrapped scarf hands the shop owner a bouquet.

Ohhhhh, you didn’t have to do that. They’re perfect! The flowers are the color of August bees. Their aroma fills the tiny shelved room. The man in the navy coat is pleased with the reaction to his gift. You know, mimosas have really gone up in price but it doesn’t matter, they’ll always be my favorite. The shop owner agrees with the man in the navy coat.

I really need to leave the shop and get on with my afternoon but listening to these elder people in the neighborhood coming in just to say Hi howareya, holidays good? You good? somehow feels like the most important experience of the entire week. I reluctantly leave my sacred corner of eavesdropping, check out with a copy of The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats. Once outside, I call my sister.

I’m using headphones with cords which she always gives me a hard time about. We talk about our hometown (which is kind of like Stars Hollow in Gilmore Girls). All we wanted to be when we grew up was anonymous. She tells me that even in the freedom of anonymity people still need to be known. I think she’s right. The balance between the two (feeling freedom and feeling others digging too deeply into your business) isn’t always easy to find, but it’s out there. By out there I mean here, New York City.

After I get off the phone with her I pass a tall man I’ve seen several times and am always intrigued by. He’s wearing yellow bell-bottom pants, a fabulous white fur coat, and has great hair (curls with their own agenda.) I can’t help myself. I tell him I love his pants. Awwww thanks sweetheart. I love your jacket! My rain jacket is rubber and bright yellow. Much like the color of the man’s bell bottoms and the color of the mimosas that were delivered to the bookstore earlier. One of my 80-year-old professors has a similar jacket, same brand even. It stands out against the sea of head-to-toe black.

I’m still not ready to head home so I do what anyone does when they aren’t quite ready: walk to the river. No matter what I’ve accomplished or what I’m procrastinating, getting eyes on the water is often pivotal. And even if it doesn’t spark some sort of productivity, it sparks something. I never regret it.

I love how the Hudson makes me feel, but I especially love how it makes me feel in the rain. Water joining more water, the Statue of Liberty draped in mist. Today’s the kind of day that actually requires her to use her torch. Several fishermen are casting lines. I ask what they’re catching. Nothing yet! We don’t talk about it but I know we’re both indulging in the lack of people on the pier given the weather.

Though it’s controversial, I love winter. I wish the rain was falling as snow. Precipitation is precipitation though. I’ll take it. It’s wise to sip on whatever the sky sends you. Too many people resist the sky. That can get you into trouble (trouble of the soul.)

My eyes catch something that looks like a fire hydrant but isn’t a fire hydrant on the edge of the pier. A bollard, that’s what they’re called. It’s the color of my jacket, humming against hues of river grey. I’m worthless at math but I think this is a sound equation because today it’s proven replicable: yellow finds yellow.

The rain may as well be snow because now I’m a little shivery. I head toward home and one wish spirals in my grey matter. I toss a mustard seed soak from the natural food store into the hotter-than-hell faucet stream. The water becomes the color of what I imagine a field of mimosas looks like in late season. It smells like eucalyptus, rosemary, thyme. The square footage of this apartment doesn’t give away its whole personality because it doesn’t account for the tub. It’s deep. I light two wicks. The wax drips, evergreen. Little flares shimmy in the steam, slender portals into gold.