Second Shot
Dear Diary:
I was walking through Prospect Park on a glorious fall afternoon, admiring the foliage and taking in the scene. Ahead of me, a cyclist tossed something toward a garbage can and missed. Without slowing down, he continued on.
When I reached the spot, I picked up the litter. It seemed clear to me that the man had meant to throw it away. I wanted to do my part to keep the park clean.
As I straightened up, I noticed the cyclist coming back. He had turned around to retrieve what he had dropped.
I gave him a thumb’s up.
“I got it,” I said.
He waved, said, “thank you,” circled around and continued on his ride.
— Dasi Ilowitz
This Manhattan Morning
Dear Diary:
Starts out gray. We wake up in shadow, listen to the weather, wonder what kind of day it will be.
Manhattan sun seems skittish today, as if cowed by the island’s savvy sophistication.
But by noon it sends down slices of warmth; they brighten the shaded plazas under the tall towers,
with enough light left over to cover the parks, the rivers, and us. The day has shaped up nicely.
Some knock this island, uneasy with its famous mix of smarts, bravado and bluster. But that’s the draw: come
measure yourself against the best, find your own voice and add it to the striving heart of New York.
— Jimmy Roberts
Pointers
Dear Diary:
My daughter Emily and I were finally on a long-planned trip to New York.
She had explicitly warned me many times that I was not to point at people and things while we were in the city. She was capable of seeing the Chrysler Building and lines for pizza without my help. I didn’t need to aim my finger at them.
Apparently, I do this all the time. Apparently, my dear daughter finds this embarrassing. Apparently, she finds me embarrassing.
I cooperated. I sat on my hands on the subway. The Empire State Building’s omnipresence no matter where we stood in Manhattan was left unpointed at. Places we’d seen on “Law & Order” barely elicited a nod.
But the Museum of Modern Art? I was stunned. Overwhelmed. Everything cried out for pointing. Yet I stood firm.
We were on the fifth floor looking at a Mondrian. My daughter moved closer.
“Dad,” she said. “Look at this. This is so cool. Look at that line. It actually kind of looks like he made a mistake.”
What I saw was this: her finger, as if in slow motion, extending forward to within inches of the canvas and pointing.
Like a Gotham superhero, a security guard swept down on her and said: “Please keep your distance. Do not touch. Step back, please!”
I couldn’t have been happier.
— Dave Hancock
Tree-Bed Memorial
Dear Diary:
My aunt moved into an Upper West Side brownstone in 1973.
“I’m only leaving here in a coffin!” she often said.
When she died in November 2025, I decided impulsively that I needed to set up a memorial on the street she loved so much.
I scrounged around my apartment for art supplies, stuffed a faux peach-colored rose, some rainbow yarn and a laminated photograph of her in my bag and set off at night for her block.
I surveyed the area outside her building. A metal fence surrounding a tree bed spoke to me. I used my best sailor’s knots to secure the makeshift monument to it.
My aunt had seen many changes in the neighborhood during her 52 years there. She was also effective in preventing change: In the 1980s, when landlords tried to evict residents of single-room-occupancy hotel, her block association and partners bought it so the tenants could stay.
She was also an art historian and lover of modern art, so I know she would recognize the love beneath the surface of my terrible artwork.
Others apparently did too. More than 100 days later, through rainstorms, heavy snowfall and countless passers-by, the sailor knots held fast.
Thank you, New York, for letting it be.
— Molly Arnn
Subway Tail
Dear Diary:
I was taking the 1 train home from work and got on at 50th Street.
A man got on and stood next to me carrying a small dog in a Fairway bag.
It didn’t seem like the most comfortable arrangement, but the dog appeared unbothered.
At 72nd Street, I noticed an older woman with a cane moving toward the door.
As the train slowed down, she turned to the dog’s owner.
“At least cut a hole somewhere to let its tail out,” she said sharply.
Then she poked the man on the shin with her cane and got off the train.
— Tanveer Chabba
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
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