I inhaled the air of 2015’s Brooklyn summer. It was fresh and sticky; as I inhaled and exhaled, the heat embraced my skin. My heart pounded – every sensation in my body was heightened. The flashes of aged green and white signs signified street locations, but to me they represented finality. I was in New York. The heat buzzed around me. The sights of the tall, uniform apartment buildings were familiar. I recognized the screech of car horns. The 24-hour corner store was as it had been, every other visit I’d made. This time, however, I wasn’t going back home. I could hear the bounce of a basketball and the laughter of children. Though my move to a new place was complete, the characteristics of summer remained comfortingly the same.
Wiping a cool drop of sweat off my face, I recall facing the sun. It seemed to smile upon me – the baby blue sky held hands with cotton clouds; they drifted together horizontally in harmony. I wondered if the sky was as beautiful at home at that moment and doubted it. My heart began to flutter. My mouth slowly opened and fell to a half-smile. Was it nervousness? Excitement? Both, I decided. From the cool, full, green grass, things both literally and figuratively looked up.
It was my first summer in New York, and I had nothing in particular that I had to do. In the meantime, I decided to do what the most natural thing would be: explore. Day after day, the sleek plastic of my metro card twirled around in my hand as I waited for this bus and that subway train. I went wherever the day took me. I could find one neighborhood with classy bars, buzzing with costumers, the next decorated in graffiti, and another filled with tourists smiling brightly and standing still – you have to take lots of pictures when in New York. No matter where I went, however, I saw squinting eyes and bodies leaning on anything nearby. I looked out at everything and nothing in particular. “It’s hot!” I murmured. I felt my shirt cling onto my back. “It’s hot!” I groaned. My face felt as though there was an ever-slight layer of honey sticking it together. “It’s way too hot” I yelled. It felt like the best thing to do.
There was an ice cream shop I came to like. As I made my way there, I didn’t know whether to love or hate the whizzing cars that passed by. On one hand, they could have killed me, on the other hand, the cool breeze was quite nice. I could feel the tone of my skin changing with each step. I knew when I got home I would be a gradient of browns, depending of that skin’s exposure to the sun. I didn’t mind it. The warmth of the summer was certainly oppressive, but sometimes was also kind. Opening the doors into the creamery, a blast of cold air greeted me. The sound of music filled the typical New York spot. The walls were adorned with hand-made illustration. It was easy to forget that it was the ice cream you came for. The line was long: we were all desperate to be relieved from the heat. We stood together somewhere on Nevins street, going back and forth between creatively titled flavors of a blessed summer treat.
One of the happiest moments I remember of my first summer in Brooklyn was at that very creamery. My mother’s laughter was every bit as sweet as the ice cream. I resisted the thought of how much I would miss her. I hate coffee, but something about coffee flavored ice cream makes me happy. The bitter crunch of coffee flavored pieces and chocolate flavored ice cream fit well together. The crackle of the sugar cone came and went, and it was worth its overpricing. I scrambled to eat, talk, and wipe the excess sticky goo off my fingers. I looked out on the rooftop. I was among many Brooklyn rooftops, some of houses, some of shops, some of, well, I don’t know. I could still taste the coffee ice cream and I smiled. No season makes me as happy and as frustrated as summer.
The first time I went to Prospect Park the weather was perfect. The luscious green of grass and trees seemed to go on forever. The scent of burning charcoal wafted over to me. I inhaled deeply. Was it the scent of heat? And happiness. The tapping sounds of runners and fast breathing greeted me several times. The laughter of children filled my ears. I walked at a leisurely pace myself, trying to be sure to take everything in. I remember hearing a rumbling. I followed it. Step by step the sound became intensified. I could feel it in my chest. I identified it as drums. As the scene came into full view, I could only be in awe. In a semi-circle sat (and some stood) several players. The energy between them was magnetic. The song weaved in and out of sections effortlessly. Drummers filled in and dropped out as they pleased but the music went on without a hitch. I stood anonymously in the crowd of onlookers. My sleeves were rolled up to take in as much fresh air as I could. The temperature made no difference to me as I allowed myself to melt into the songs. I felt as though I too could be a part of the music.
My first last-month of the summer concluded quickly. The air became sharper. I began making trips to the store for pens and notebooks. A new chapter was ahead of me and once again I found myself not knowing what to expect. I thought back on my first experiences in New York and one word came to mind: beauty! Regardless of the places I went to, I assigned this characteristic to them. I was filled with hope that, one day I would become a part of that beauty too. I felt that it was possible. This is what my sort-of first summer in New York gave me.
Kaila Saunders
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