At nearly 2:00am, the firecrackers have faded and have been replaced by the ruffling of helicopters above me. I suppose Homeland Security is looking for terrorists among the old ladies in Bay Ridge. Good idea: if nothing else, the pasta will be worth the trip.
It's positively spring-like, the air is crisp, but not hard or "brick" as my students refer to extreme cold. Cars are drifting down my narrow street. People are still awake, and the sound of furniture shifting resonates like distant waves.
Henry is off scoping out the table, Larry is surfing along the underbelly of the heater. My boys have a love of heat, and it is never hot enough. They like to sniff the breeze, then return to the heaters. The also like to snuggle as close as possible.
Mostly, it's densely quiet. "Here's the baby." Short phrases come through the wall, but the room is very still with my anxiety. Like breath against a cold window -- but it's 55 degrees and I had a t-shirt on all day.
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