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My son makes me proud.
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By Craig Dowd
October. The summer now belongs to the past. The flu is back, and the leaves are falling. Which means I can be found where many city stories begin, in the local park, with a book crowning my lap, thumbing through the life I’ve made here.
The origin of my own tale, then, is hardly unique. The neighborhood park no matter how small or barren is an institution, like the bodega and the church. It’s where facts bloom into meaning. Where magic still exists.
Rebecca and I were already in love when we spent an afternoon reading in the park three blocks from the studio we had just rented, in Brooklyn, though we joked it was our…
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