In a New York Minute

The windows are open and the smell of grilling wafts in on the fresh, sweet air. The spring sun slants into my eyes on the way down for the evening and Wayne Shorter and McCoy Tyner are blowing hot jazz on the juke. The Times is spread out on the floor, read and absorbed.

And for whatever inexplicable reason it’s all making me desperately nostalgic for New York, and specifically, although none of my current sensory stimulations apply to it, the Brooklyn of my grandmother’s apartment and my Saturday Night Fever youth.

Damn, nostalgia – and faux-nostalgia – is a bitch.