Walking down sixth avenue just now, I watched a wisp of golden yellow carry itself on the wind. Third butterfly of the year. I am always beginning this way - counting the first sighting of rhubarb, the first abandoned glove of winter, the first warm day of May. It was the first year in some time, when I could sing "On the First Warm Day" truthfully.
My father, reasons unbeknownst to me, repeats this line to me every year: "Once I read a story about a butterfly in the subway, and today, I saw one. It got on at 42nd and off at 59th, where, I assume, it was going to Bloomingdales to buy a hat that will turn out to be a mistake, as almost all hats are."
Central Park at the onset of spring. I was still using my broken camera for this roll of film and that night we walked through the dark to Earl's for beer and grilled cheese sandwiches (with pork belly! kimchi! a fried egg!). I should also mention the most beguiling sunset we followed from the West Side, which I will carry with me in reserve for impending bleak moments.