East River, July Morning
Sohaila Abdulai writes:
The summer is turning out to be a bit of a bummer. Too much uncertainty, too little inspiration. Thank goodness for the early morning walk.
It’s a sticky morning in more ways than one. Last night’s disturbing dreams are sticking to my brain. The heat wave is sticking my hat to my head with sweat. I want to lie panting on the sofa but, just like I know that once I start to write, the world fills with colour, I know that I have to unstick myself and walk. For my soul, my body and my cardiologist.
Just 45 minutes along the East River. The sun is pouring down like honey. Hot honey.
I turn the corner to get onto the bridge and hear a shout. There is Wan, one of the Chinese gardeners I’ve befriended over the last couple of years. It’s been a while, and we are both very pleased to see each other. She makes me wait (cardiologist would frown at stopping and starting but life is about more than raising your heartbeat) while she forages in a plastic bag and triumphantly pulls out a handful of beans. Impossible to refuse.
I continue on my walk with 14 green bean pods and a rogue purple one. I cross the bridge and, oh, shallow creature that I am, the summer is no longer a bummer with those jagged shards of sunlight dancing on the water like drunken sequins.
I walk walk walk.
I look down at my brown legs marching along and wish I was wearing Indian anklets with bells that rang as I walk because suddenly it seems like a huge victory that these legs are marching along on this specific morning by this specific river.
Two pigeons alight on the railing next to the river; one flaps his wings, gets on top, and they are mating. That’s the spirit, pigeons, bonk for eternal life!
There are raised seats facing the river along the boardwalk, and, in a bank of four, two are occupied. In one, a man raises his face to the sun and yowls at the top of his voice. Next to him, a woman reads a book, serene as if she were alone in a grassy meadow.
Three men are fishing under the Manhattan Bridge. Across the way in Brooklyn the “Extra Space Storage” building looks weirdly like it’s about to take off, must be the morning light hitting it just so. A man coming towards me is very interested, yes, sir, you are correct, I am not wearing a bra.
A woman’s shirt says, “CALM CALM CALM.” A man with dangling earrings and pink headphones skateboards by me, swaying and snapping his fingers to his private beat. A group of Korean women shake their hips to their exercise music. On a bench an unhoused woman smeared with dirt, so thin she could almost fall through the slats, mutters to herself and turns over. Three blonde ponytails swing from side to side as they race by me.
The D train thunders over the bridge, the blue and white ferry sails along on its way to important business at 34th Street, everyone’s got someplace to go, I just have to figure out where these brown legs need to be but this is sufficient for a July morning.
I agree with Anatole France: It is good to collect things, but it is better to go on walks.
Sohaila Abdulali is the author of several books, including What WeTalk About When We Talk About Rape. She is currently writing a book is about women, land and belonging.
