March in New York City. You step outside and the shade hits you like November. But you cross the street into the sun and it is April. That is the game. Sun walking. You learn it your first winter on the Lower East Side. Stay on the sunny side. Not the song. The actual sunny side. The south side of the street. The west side in the morning. You follow the light like a cat follows a warm spot on the floor.

I am on my way to get coffee. That is what I am always on my way to get. A dollar coffee from the guy on the corner. Not the four dollar coffee from the place with the laptop people. The dollar coffee. The one that comes in the blue cup with the Greek design. I do not know what that design means. I have been drinking out of that cup for forty years and I never asked. It is beautiful. That is enough.

Early spring morning. The food trucks are setting up. Prada put somebody's painting on a billboard. The 7-Eleven is open because the 7-Eleven is always open. The bus stop has that cold shadow underneath the awning. You step around it. You stay in the sun. The whole city is a chessboard of warm and cold and you learn the moves or you freeze.

This is what I miss. Not the gigs. Not the crowds. Not the records. I miss the walk to get coffee on a morning when the sun is on one side of the street and the shade is on the other and you know which side to be on.

See also: The Cup — the blue cup with the Greek columns. The Sidewalk — the first amendment poured in concrete. The Corner — where two streets meet and a person decides. The Busker — the morning shift on the corner. Washington Square Park — the park at the end of the walk. The Room — Sun Ra on the space between the walls.