The symphony of the city

I stand in my living room, looking out the window. We live on the 9th floor, on 89th St, with a clear view of Broadway.

It's dusk. To my right, it's dark... a byproduct of the end of Daylight Savings Time. To my right, toward the Hudson, the sky is still bright with a rosy glow.

There are sirens and horns in the background, although it takes me a few minutes to even notice them. These noises are members of the symphony of the city - parts of its DNA - without which she would be incomplete.

I watch the people on the sidewalk, the mothers with their strollers, the taxi cabs passing by, the patrons coming in and out of restaurants and bodegas and nail salons.

I look across 89th St and directly into another 9th floor apartment. A woman stands at her sink with headphones on, cleaning dishes, looking out at her window, too. Does she see me?

I look one floor below, to the sprawling apartment with blue and white floral wallpaper. I look three floors up, to the window with the dim light with three flower pots blooming in the window. I wonder if either of these apartments houses the trumpet player who serenades me.

The sounds, the streets, the people. The sunsets. The buildings. New York City is alive, and even though it's completely dark by the time I write these words, I know that I love her more today, more in this moment, than I ever thought possible.