I was up at 6:30 the last two mornings, running in Central Park — the same route I used to follow most mornings before work back in 1987, when I lived in a one-room studio on the upper West Side. Being in my old neighborhood this week felt a bit like time travel — there, as always, were the dogs, cavorting in an an exhilarated frenzy of sociability, their bleary-eyed, solitary owners sipping cups of take-out coffee; there were the serious runners, buff men and lean women in coordinated spandex, speeding by me as I loped along in my t-shirt…
The lilacs bloomed this week, and tulips appeared like magic all through the front garden (it was quite a surprise to see the purple ones come up, as if part of some carefully orchestrated color scheme). Summer is nearly at hand, and it seemed that the shape of things had begun to emerge. I’ve been cleaning closets, reorganizing rooms, preparing myself for a full house again. After a long winter, I’m more than ready to trade the quiet of two for the high energy of four, imagining a party for the 4th of July, the pleasure of holding hands around…
Every year, I tell my sons what I’d like for Mother’s Day: a letter. Something written from the heart and offered freely rather than bought from a store and wrapped neatly. I don’t always get my wish, nor do I always take the time to write to my own mother. (Yes, it really is so much easier to buy a card, choose some flowers, indulge in a nice dinner out.) This year will be a first — my boys will be in two different states on Mother’s Day, my mom and dad will be away together, and I’ll be driving…
