In September, here in Brooklyn, there will be a summer-warm afternoon, heavy with moisture, when a fall front approaches. Above me is that summer sky that made May and June beautiful, fragrant with flower scents and optimism, but that by now has become blurry with summer’s debris. I sit on park benches and walk along waterfronts anticipating the cleansing, cool air to come.
Yet the cloud surging toward me is dark and foreboding. It is silent and yet not quiet. It’s still, and yet it pushes along. It is bigger than anything I’ve known. There are no stars. It is beyond both astronomy and meteorology. It is frightening and seductive.
As it reaches and enfolds me, I am a boy again. My father and five-year-old me are heading along a London street toward a massive building whose lights glower through swirling fog. It is a nightmarish cathedral borne of medieval hardship and cruelty. But I don’t think to tell Dad I’m afraid. As long as I’m with him, I’m safe.
The feelings of childhood linger, don’t they?