You! I am reflecting on this new place where I now live. The floor is slanted, and my son rolls marbles down the long hallway connecting his new bedroom, full of unpacked toys and clothes, to the rest of the apartment. Our things arrive after a week of camp chairs and a banker’s box coffee table. I am relieved. None of these things are new. Their energy shifts this new space in a way I can physically feel. I unpack a vase, and I miss the garden I left upstate. The roses that climb up the side wall of our house. In the morning, I wish I could open the back door and let out the dog like I did the week before and for all of the weeks before that week. Instead, he must wait to pee until the child wakes, and I can convince him to dress and walk down the flights of stairs into the busy street. We are totally here and not here at all. School starts, and so does my new job. I find myself explaining our newness to people who have been here for years.

You Things return to me, most triggered by smell and disgust. Noise, too, I remember. But I also notice differences in how I am here, now. I wait until lights change fully. I walk without headphones. I am always looking at people, to see who is looking at me. Is anyone? I catch eyes with the driver of the bus I pass as I cross the intersection to my apartment. We smile and wave. I ponder the feeling I get from this connection, brokered mostly by my desire to ensure he would not run me over, blossomed into a simple human acknowledgement. My son and I read about new trash cans shaped specifically for pizza boxes coming to town. We marvel at the rats in our own. Is “kick the cans” a phrase about rat removal? Or idea progression? Is this something I’ve never known? Neighbors tell us they hear the rats squeaking at night from their kitchen window. I hear generators and sirens from mine.

You! The Park saves us. Saves me. I try to train the dog to hold it until we walk the single block there. He pulls on his leash, which pulls on me, in a way that makes me feel new kinds of anger. The child pulls me the other way, running ahead into the mix of commuters and scaffolding. There is a shift when we enter. It feels similar to taking off uncomfortable clothes. Release. I begin to think of Olmsted and his fierce protection of this space. I thank him passively as I enjoy the art of his landscapes. On Fridays, we walk further into the meadows. We start a Friday Night Scream in the Meadow Club, and we scream into the sun setting over the West Side. I watch the changing color of the sky and think of my empty house upstate. One block from the river. I watched the sun set there from the back corner of my yard. The sunset here is the same bright yellow as flowers that appeared beside my sunset spot there. Where did they come from?

You! My son goes off with his father and I am free to roam. The day is sun and warmth. I walk in the streets towards destinations that I abandon for others. A parade blocks my path, so I change it. For some minutes, I sit on a park bench and sketch until the sun shifts. Tree branches intersecting with fences, cracks in pavement. I am so happy to have abandoned my need for figurative, representational art some years ago. Abstraction is beauty everywhere. I walk by street gardens full of bright, busy begonias, and I think of Joan Mitchell’s “Begonia.” Specifically, the dark tones that emerge beneath her manic splashes of orange and yellow. Every real begonia has them. I return to my son, who is visibly tired when I arrive. I hug him and then feed him rainbow sprinkle cake and vegan chicken tenders at a restaurant I used to love and still do. Their fresh ginger tea is unmatched. We ride the bus across the Park, home to the waiting dog.

YOU What will it look like here once these scaffolds come down? Why are more going up? Will there ever be a time when the block is free? The trees? At night, my son rides his bike on the sidewalk, now deserted, usually so busy during the day. I wrap the dog’s leash under his armpits the first night to help him feel secure. Very quickly, he tells me to let him go, zipping away like he’s always known how. I think of his five years, and the nine months before them. It is odd, to walk back and forth on this block as my boy bikes. I walked this same block when he was in my belly. To work at this same place, in another job. To go to appointments where doctors and nurses checked on him. Once, at an appointment just a few blocks from where he now pedals, I saw his tiny unborn heart on a screen. Beating within me. The dog finally shits. We lock up, pausing to read the scrolling sign on the taco truck that is always parked at our corner.