View from a Stoop
I love this city.
The line twisting through a construction site, waiting for a taste of the World’s BEST Ice Cream.
The bride at the crosswalk, looking both ways before she crosses. Like it’s any old Tuesday.
The dad who makes irrational decisions like riding a skateboard in Nolita with his son between his legs.
The mom who make less obviously irrational decisions, like choosing to live in New York City. She hobbles by with a baby strapped to her chest. It would be easier to live most anywhere else. But then, she wouldn’t have New York. Which, let’s face it, is the best thing most of us will ever have.
Because there are pop-up plays in the park.
And bookstores open till ten.
And that same mom with that same baby strapped to her chest. Back. Now pushing a stroller full of towels.
Do you see what we do for you, New York? We carry babies for blocks because the stroller is full of the clean towels you wouldn't let us wash in private.
Maybe you see it. Maybe you see me.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Because either way, I am sitting on your stoop, in a dress and high heels, waiting for my laundry.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Because either way, I am sitting on your stoop, in a dress and high heels, waiting for my laundry.
Love Love Love,
Kat
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