esterday in New York was like a scene from a musical. The clouds parted, the birds twittered, and by afternoon, it’s possible the whole city was married to each other. For the first time in months, the shops on Bedford Avenue swung their doors open, and the restaurant porches poured customers onto the sidewalk. All the shitty torpor and gray slush of the lingering winter vanished in a sunbeam, and people were talking to each other, talking to strangers, petting dogs, hugging trees. Spring is always welcome, but I can’t remember when I felt this much relief. As mild as the winter was, it had still forced us into isolation, scurrying like rats from sunlight, our faces buried in wool scarves. It had been too long since I’d just strolled around Williamsburg, no end point in mind. When I returned home, I opened all the windows and folded up my sweaters for storage. I love those sweaters, but I’ll tell you what--I’m not the least bit sad to see them go.