The first cold morning on the J train snuck up on me like it does every year.
One day I'm fanning myself on the platform at Marcy Avenue, sweating through a linen shirt I swore was breathable. The next, I'm standing there with my hands shoved into my coat pockets, breath fogging up, watching the Williamsburg Bridge cut across a sky the color of cold milk.
I wore the coat too early, honestly. It was maybe 58 degrees. But there's a specific joy in being the first one on the platform in real outerwear, like I've been waiting all year to tell the weather, finally, I was ready for you.
The first cold morning on the J train always makes me think of Ahmedabad winters, which aren't really winters at all. Just Mummy insisting I wear a sweater over my kurta at 7am while the sun was already warming the terrace. I used to roll my eyes. Now I FaceTime her from this rattling train and tell her I'm cold and she says, good, now you understand, as if being cold is a lesson she's been trying to teach me across fifteen years and two continents.
The train crossed the bridge and the whole car went gold for a second. Manhattan on one side, Brooklyn behind me, and me somewhere in between, which is a feeling I've gotten used to.
I got off at Essex and bought a chai from the cart guy who always calls me beti even though I've never told him my name. He knows. We know.
The first cold morning on the J train means the year is turning. It means boots soon, and soup from the Ukrainian place on 7th Street, and that specific October light that makes even the garbage bags look cinematic.
I love this city most when it's shrugging into a sweater.
Tell me your coat came out too early too.
Love,