In the fading light of a short day, the roses were like a constellation, guiding us on our walk around the mansion.
We wondered how a plant with such mottled, mildewed leaves could summon the energy to produce a perfect flower.
Somehow a few wilting petals made the flowers that much more beautiful.
The end of another year had arrived: as usual, many things had happened, but at this moment, we couldn’t remember any of them.
The past and everything in it existed only beyond this rusty, opaque window.
It seemed hard to believe that people born in 1999 were already twenty-five or thirty years old. Where did the time go?
Important questions loomed, like whether the country would ever stop veering to the right. Or maybe they weren’t that important. Life had felt empty ever since the mid-season finale of “The Walking Dead.”
Recently I clicked onto the self-sorting “selfies” tab on my computer’s photo app, and this was the only picture there. I felt like I had accomplished something important, just by tricking technology.
It also occurred to me that Elektra — clearly the smartest of the bunch — had been taking selfies.
Did I take this picture of Clio, I wondered, or did Elektra? I couldn’t remember.
Clio and Elektra often spend their days wandering around taking pictures of each other, I guess. It seemed like they could be doing something more “productive,” but at least they weren’t canvassing for “The Donald.”
One of the more interesting developments in southern Washington Heights has been the recent appearance of large, painted birds, a tribute to “J.J.” Audubon, who before he made the most recent Star Wars movie had a big career as an ornithologist.
As we continued on our walk, we felt a little overwhelmed by the architectural beauty of 162nd Street.
Manhole cover design has gone downhill, too, sadly.
Back in the office, I spent my days watching the sky and doing other work-related things.
The sky was particularly dramatic this week.
Maybe global warming would be “worth it,” after all, if it paid off with skies like this.
As always, New York City was completely incomprehensible.
At lunch one day, I went to the river, where I annoyed the shrubbery by asking them all to pose for a picture.
I wondered if our miniature Chinese dogwood would ever have red berries, the way it’s supposed to. (Note that these trees, however, are not miniature Chinese dogwoods.)
The weekend arrived and, on Saturday morning, I went for a run through Fort Tryon Park. I had forgotten what it was like to be cold.
Berries were everywhere, which I hoped would make the birds happy.
As I ran through the heather gardens, I thought about Setsuko Hara, the Japanese actress who recently died, which now struck me as the most important thing that happened in 2015, along with the death of Holly Woodlawn. Stephen and I had watched “Tokyo Story” the previous night: I had forgotten how perfectly that movie captured the melancholy of passing time and the inevitable drift of family relationships.
And how, in every scene in which Setsuko Hara appears, you have the sense of seeing at least twenty conflicting emotions all pass over her face, or just under it. She is always smiling through her invisible tears.
Beautiful and tragic, even in the most mundane gestures.
The green leaves of the winter hydrangeas gave way to shades of red and brown.
The light on a flower seemed to tell a similar story of who we once were, and who we could still be.
