I took the N to Astoria this Sunday because my brain needed somewhere with fewer opinions.
A slow Sunday in Astoria Park is my reset button. You come up from Ditmars, walk down past the little bakeries, and then suddenly there's the water and the great iron arc of the Hell Gate Bridge overhead like something out of a dream.
I brought a blanket and a bag of samosas from a spot near the station because I refuse to have a picnic without something fried and folded. I spread out on the grass by the river and just watched.
Kids on scooters. Uncles playing cards. A couple having a very intense whispered argument that I absolutely eavesdropped on. Greek grandmothers, Bengali families, a guy doing tai chi with total commitment. Astoria contains multitudes.
The thing about a slow Sunday in Astoria Park is it doesn't demand anything from you. Manhattan is always asking you to be somewhere, be someone, be productive. Astoria just lets you lie in the grass under the Hell Gate Bridge and be a person.
The light in September does this thing where it goes soft and golden around 5pm, and everything looks like a film still. I watched the water turn amber. A train rumbled across the bridge far above. Somewhere a radio played something in Greek.
I thought about how far I am from home and how, in moments like this, the distance stops aching and starts feeling almost okay. Like maybe I've built a small life here after all. A samosa, a river, a borrowed patch of grass.
I stayed until the cold made me leave. Walked back to the N with grass on my leggings and a quieter heart.
Some Sundays don't need to become anything. They just need to be Sundays.
Love,