weekend.

oils: orange, clove, pine
songs: the only living boy in new york, tenuousness

rain in new york, and blustery chill, too. i ordered baby's stroller bunting and endeavored to find my gloves. it's that time of year. chris is traveling often these weeks, and when he is not, our tempo is slow, deliberate, short on commitments, long on wanders. these days were for saturday diner french toast and sunday onion soup at the bistro on columbus avenue, the one with red awnings we always walk by and say we want to try, say how it reminds us of paris. we devoured thick slices of apple pie and made more coffee. chicken pot pie soup bubbled on the stove and the harry potter films played on a loop. we went for nature strolls in central park and agreed: no leaves shine brighter than the ones on the hill. we heard saxophone song in the distance and felt surprised at how near to us the birds perched while we shared croissants by sheep meadow. baby licked the foam of my café au lait from my fingertip and we played peek-a-boo with bright leaves. we made plans for travel come winter and made guesses of how much baby might weigh by now. as the sleepy-chilly weekend yawned to a close, we walked 'round the neighborhood to marvel at stoops bedecked and bewitched. afterwards we shared a hot fudge sundae in the small cafe above our market that looks out over broadway and, just like that, a week-of-halloween tradition was born.