Older in Manhattan

Through the peephole, he came into view. Even drowsy eyes noticed the paper cup filled with hot coffee in his hand on the opposite side of the door.

A certain tenderness, allowed only to him, rose like water vapor from my heart into the gradual evidence of a languid grin. Unlatching the rusty chain, Zachary enveloped me with greeting. He took me in his arms, showering my neck and cheek with kisses before wishing me happy birthday.

Offering hot wake up elixir, I laced my fingers around the flimsy cup with gratitude. The day was off to an ideal start.

Between sips and itinerary updates, he joined the little girls and I as we finished our preparations for the morning. In order to leave the hotel for a proper breakfast, we still needed to dress and layer into all our winter accessories.

Since adjoining rooms are rare accommodations these days, our family was split.

The boys here and the girls there.

As much as I look forward to exclusive time with my little girls, I miss their father’s company when travel disjoints the lot of us. As the birthday lady, I announced first rights to all hand-holding and seating arrangements nearest him for the day. Everyone else thought it fair enough.

My thirties began in Brooklyn. How apropo to close the decade in the same city as well.

We filled the hours at the Natural History Museum and Central Park. What a surprise to run into Abraham Boyd, while passing through the park. The girls and I dance to his velvety voice as he sang Frank Sinatra tunes.

Throughout the day we ate as much French-American cuisine my little heart desired. Beginning with pastries and coffee in pretty blue and white porcelain cups. Concluding, with some fuss, a toast of St. Germaine in the Village.

I woke up a little older in New York City. But I don’t mind.