“It’s nice out here,” said a man in a navy down vest and Yankees cap as he swung through the lobby door of his building out onto Frederick Douglass.
“Yeah,” I replied, agreeing.
“I thought it would be chilly,” he said.
It was about 31 degrees but the sunshine felt warm.
At corner of 147th and Eighth, a man and woman hailed a car. Though I saw them from behind – they looked sharp, she in a long coat with a pattern of flowers, her Afro catching the sunlight. He wore a gray flannel suit.
“It’s Palm Sunday,” the cashier at Pathmark told me.
The beginning of Holy Week.
Along Eighth, a deli prepares to open. “Mo’s Gourmet,” says the red sign with yellow letters. Brown butcher paper held in place by blue painter’s tape fills the windows right now.
Back at my building, the sound of Drake drifts through a second-floor window.