New York City, September 8, 2013

★★★★ A yellow balloon had rolled under the bed, where it was met by a ray of light that had bounced from west to east and passed under the bottom of the all-but-fully-lowered shade, so that it glowed in the shadows. Out in the morning, down at the river, a carnival or fair was slowly setting up on the pier. Up in the sky, sharply lit, were a helicopter, a blimp, an airplane, and two children’s kites. Then one of the kites was in the water. Swells rolled toward the pier. A speedboat bumped downstream, rudely close to a sailboat, or so it looked. Runners in their agonies were plodding along the riverbank, as kayaks plashed back and forth. After lunch and a nap, there was no excuse for not letting the children back out into the day, before the classrooms would belatedly close in around them. On the little playground overlooking the dropoff to the river, boys were spitting water at each other, apparently in a game of tag. Now the carnival was up, the little rides swinging or spinning. The sun was perfect if you had your back to it; the breeze was at the back then, too. Out in the channel, the water was aqua, but up close it was the color of a cup of tea in which you accidentally started pouring milk before realizing it was skim. The light penetrated it just far enough to find trash floating a few inches below the surface. Down the pier, behind a moving wall of signs, came the candidate who was absolutely not going to become mayor, in his shirtsleeves, his child riding on his shoulders. The toddler, after the procession passed, demanded a shoulder ride of his own. A few steps later, he demanded to be let down. It had seemed like it would be fun, but it wasn’t fun at all.