Happy Pride 2016.
From above the street, it looked like a single bright thought drifting through the city—an arc of rainbow balloons, tethered and carried forward by people moving at an easy, steady pace.
New York stacks worlds on top of each other: sun on pavement, tree branches cutting shade into pieces, a crowd pressed against barricades, and then color—so much color—passing by like a small weather system of its own. The balloons make a soft ceiling over the marchers, and the whole scene feels lighter than it should, like the city briefly remembering how to breathe.
It’s strange how a parade can feel both temporary and permanent. Temporary because it passes, because the street goes back to traffic and errands. Permanent because the image sticks: a public kindness, carried down an avenue in daylight. People showing up for each other where everyone can see.
I keep thinking about how streets collect memories the way old houses do—layer by layer. For a few blocks, the ordinary becomes something gentler. The parade keeps moving, the crowd keeps watching, and above it all that rainbow stretch holds together, floating forward as if it knows the way home.
