Dudurudh

Waiting at the 53rd st station for the bayridge bound R train with a grocery bag from the Indian store in hand was somewhat of a weekly routine for me for 7 years. The train usually arrives in a couple of minutes (but never later than 10 minutes) and my destination, Bayridge avenue, is only two stops and 4 minutes away. If you lean over the platform and peer through the tunnel hard enough you can practically see it. Exit at the middle of the platform if the plan is to buy chicken over rice for dinner. To avoid the crowds, exit at the rear. 

Familiarity is a dopamine booster.  Bai dar is still shady. There’s a new school of medicine where a radiology center used to be. The front yard of my first house is still unkempt. The door is still ajar. There’s a small vegetable patch though – that’s new. 

The ugly scaffolding on the sidewalk is gone and the old canopy is back. 

My favorite row of houses is still my favorite row of houses. One of them has a yellow door and their front lawn has the most gorgeous flowers. 

Owls head Park comes into view. It seems to be getting a make over – including the portion of the hill from where I’ve watched the sun set on many a winter evening as the Staten Island ferry, in all its iconic orange glory, would slowly chug past Lady Liberty and the last remaining rays of light cast a similar orange hue on both the manhattan skyline (which we love from a distance) and the Jersey city skyline (which we tolerate). 

The pier hasn’t changed. 

There are still the old Asian men standing by their fishing rods and electric scooters, either yapping or yawning for hours on end. In six years, I’ve seen them cumulatively catch maybe five fish. 

There are still the flock of pigeons who simply gather to eat bits of the pita bread someone always leaves behind — or at least they would, if it wasn’t for the kids running straight into them with the sole intention of disrupting their dinner party. 

The ice cream truck is still there too and now accepting Apple Pay. 

On warm days like this one, the narrows between Staten Island and bayridge bring a sea breeze from the Atlantic Ocean through the Verrazano bridge and straight across the picnic tables at which I’ve sat at all hours of day and night, with and without friends, in joy and in despair and mostly in moments of uncertainty to remember that despite everything, this endless shoulder of the ocean will still be here gently caressing the island and always dancing with the moon. 

This too is New York.