Florence

The 4 train pulled into 42nd Street and the doors opened and a white man, probably someone's father, stepped into the car and sang out:

"Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?"

And the crowded car erupted in cheers. Most of the passengers knew the line, because most of the passengers were heading to see The Wall at Yankee Stadium.

It was early July 2012. Ilya was on the cusp of incorporating Redbeard Bikes. I had left the office, and was going to meet my family at the concert. My nuclear family, my family of origin.

"Remember how she said that
We would meet again some sunny day.
Vera, Vera
What has become of you?"

When I hear, "Vera, Vera," those plaintive notes, I am immediately a child again, sitting in the living room waiting for my father to come home, because my mother is in the bathroom washing my little sister's hair, and she won't hear the doorbell over the rush of the water.

Did they only have one set of keys? And who did I imagine instead of Vera when I sang along?

*

On Friday night the 2 train from Penn to Barclays was filled with knots of women wearing flower wreaths in their hair, or holding them, in flowing dresses or jeans, in shoes ranging whimsical to practical. I regretted a little my default to practicality, to comfort and warmth.

But then high up in the second to last row of Barclays –

steep Barclays, so steep I was sure I would not make it back down, even though I dream-rehearse descending ladders like stairs every night –

debatable Barclays, a place that was just an architectural rendering and a lawsuit, when I was a fledgling volunteer at Transportation Alternatives, discussing how the massive construction would affect cyclists –

when the lights went out and Florence + the Machine ran out onto the stage and every single person stood up –

my clothes did not matter.

High up in the second to last row of Barclays, it was as if Florence had taken my hands in hers, the way she took the hands of fans near the stage, and held them, and is still holding them –

Florence, who said she thought she might be too old to write songs about waiting for someone to text her back, but wrote one anyway (and sang it, and we sang along) – who survived an ectopic pregnancy and complications – who believes songs are prophesies –

as I watch and watch again the two or three short clips I allowed myself to record, mere minutes, because I wanted both my hands free to take Florence's.

NEWSY STUFF

In my essay, "You'll know it when you find it," I write about my beloved work-study job at the Harriman Institute, and how that experience informed my search for my first real job after college graduation. (Spoiler alert: I ended up in Rackets, the best bureau at the Manhattan District Attorney's Office.) Sneak preview in an earlier letter.

Many thanks to Katie Vermilyea at BPL, Olivia at OR Books, Powerhouse Books, and of course, Rachel Meade Smith!

A Public Space No. 33 – with my story, JUNCO AND WOLF (!) – is coming out in late May 2026!

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