The first cold morning on the J train always arrives like a plot twist I should have seen coming. Last week it was 74 and I was sweating on the platform at Marcy Avenue. This morning the wind came off the East River and went straight through my linen jacket like I was wearing nothing at all.
I felt it most on the bridge. You know that stretch where the J train climbs up over the water and for thirty seconds Manhattan just unfurls itself in front of you, gray and golden and ridiculous. The light was doing something soft. The heating in the car was not.
I kept my hands in my sleeves like a kid. Mummy used to do this thing where she'd rub my palms together between hers before school in Ahmedabad on the two cold weeks we got. I thought about that the whole way to Delancey.
The first cold morning on the J train is also when the city changes its entire personality. Suddenly everyone has a tote bag with a scarf stuffed in it, just in case. The bodega near my stop put out the hot coffee urn that only appears in October. The man there called me beta without knowing he did. I bought a chai I didn't need because the cup was warm.
Here's what nobody tells you about moving to New York. You will spend one full week every October genuinely surprised that winter exists. You will dress for the person you were yesterday. You will stand on the platform at Essex Street googling "is it cold today" like the weather is a rumor.
I am that person. I have a closet full of beautiful coats and I wore the wrong jacket anyway, because some part of me is still negotiating with summer.
By the time I got to work my ears were pink and my resolve was gone. Tomorrow I pull out the wool. Tomorrow I become someone sensible.
But today I froze a little on the bridge and watched the skyline and let the cold be new one more time.
Summer, I'll see you in June. Don't be a stranger.
Love,