The first cold morning arrived without warning on Tuesday, which is very rude of September, honestly.
I walked out of my building near 116th and Broadway in a linen dress I picked specifically because it was still, technically, summer. The wind on the 1 train platform said otherwise. It slipped under my collar like a small aggressive cat.
By the time the downtown 1 rolled in, I had my arms crossed over my chest doing that hunched New Yorker posture we all learn eventually. You know the one. The one that says I refuse to acknowledge I dressed wrong.
The first cold morning always feels like a betrayal and a gift at the same time. Betrayal because my sandals are now dead to me. Gift because I get to pull out the good coats.
At 96th Street a man got on with two coffees, handed one to a woman already sitting, and she said "you remembered" so softly I almost cried before 9am. Small mercies on the express.
My mummy texted me a photo of Ahmedabad, still 34 degrees, still golden. "Wear something warm," she wrote, as if she knew. Mothers always know when the first cold morning comes, even from ten thousand kilometres away.
I got off at 50th and walked into a bodega for chai that would never be as good as home but would do. The uncle behind the counter added extra sugar without asking. I think he could tell I needed it.
The first cold morning in New York is a strange little ceremony. Nobody announces it. You just wake up and the light is thinner and the whole city has quietly agreed to become a different version of itself.
I'm not fighting it this year. I already bought oat milk for the season. That's basically a commitment.
Bring on the coats. I've been waiting all summer to feel like myself again.
Love,