Back in New York you either get on the merry-go-round or you don't. The children are waving you on. They have manic little faces, their hair at a horizontal.
It's getting cold here. Peek-a-boo weather: cold in the shade, warm in the sun. But the ice cream man still circles the block, making last-ditch efforts before parking it upstate. Maybe it's just me, but even his tune sounds slowed down, like the fat flies that lumber through air this time of year.
What happened this summer is backstory by now.