March 5, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 - “My nails are the same color as your sweater.”

March 13, 2020

The final days of pre-covid Manhattan-living had come and gone. The subways were empty and there was a noticeable amount of sadness and sorrow in the air. Coupled with the forlorn feeling of seeing street corners that were packed with life and activity just a week before, now wholly abandoned and silenced, the entire city was in a dark place.

Despite this, over lunch on March 13th, 2020, I sat on a park bench on Varick Street, and felt a small glimpse of one of those quiet and calming New York moments –––– when strangers speak to each other in passing, not saying very much, but making a real difference in each others’ lives all the same.

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I sit on a silver bench at the corner of Varick and Charlton. A woman delivering mail for the U.S. Postal Service walks by, pushing a dolly, north along Varick. She lifts the back of her right hand toward me. “My nails are the same color as your sweater,” she says and smiles, waves, then continues walking by.

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