To everything, a season. The crowds at the Wollman Rink were lighter than I'd anticipated for a school holiday weekday, perhaps because it was pretty darn cold out there. Here is the view as seen by President Lincoln, just before the Zamboni gave everyone an excuse to mob the snack bar. (The grilling-hamburger smell emanating from this rather dreary establishment was unexpectedly exquisite, although the Child claimed that I spoiled her appetite by observing that we are evolutionarily programmed to respond to the smell of roasting fatty flesh in the cold wilderness. No wonder she doesn't want to take walks with me; why can't I help myself?)
The Child and I stopped at lakeside, where this portable landing was tethered, and suddenly she was jolted by memory. "Last summer," she said excitedly, "this was the exact spot where Daddy and I got on the boat that goes around. I remember every single detail—the guy talking about the turtles, the heat, Daddy reminding me of sunscreen, everything. It was so leafy, and relaxing, and now..." She sighed. "Now, it's February."
I managed not to say anything.
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