Sometimes when I’m walking home from shopping in the east fifties, I pass Fifty Seventh Street and I think how even though I never make that right turn towards Sutton Place and the bench overlooking the East River, that spot with the view of the Queensborough Bridge still exists. Even though I’ve only been there once, I know it by heart.
I know the way the pavement looked beneath my feet in the night. I know the black iron bench and the red brick homes nearby. I know the way the bridge twinkled with the lights of crossing traffic and the way the August air tasted on my tongue. And I know the way your fingers felt on my bare shoulders. I know the way my blue cotton dress felt against the curve of my hips and the way it felt when my elbow brushed against yours. I know the way my bracelet felt cool against my wrist and the way your dirty tennis shoes looked next to my pink sandals. I know the way you looked at me.
I know the full moon hanging low over the rippling black river. I know it was a blue moon. That’s why I never make the right turn on Fifty Seventh Street, towards that bench at Sutton Place. I’m waiting for another blue moon.