How do I know it was May 22, 2011?
Because that's the date in the metadata of this photo of me and my youngest daughter:
Maddy was on the verge of graduating from high school, and we both thought it would be a grand adventure. We had a great time that day, and I have the photos to prove it.
Yesterday, I walked across the bridge alone. I had started out at a photo meetup, but I raced ahead of the rest of the group, driven by cosmic forces. Literally.
The proof? Here's a photo Maddy took of me on May 22, 2011:
And here's a photo a stranger took of me on January 27, 2018:
Same hat, same hoodie, same me... just older.
In 2018, I have learned to appreciate the theory of relativity, the space-time continuum, and the love fathers feel for their daughters.
A book I listened to this past week ("Light Falls: Space, Time, and an Obsession of Einstein," by Brian Greene)... a book I didn't particularly like... reminded me that massive objects cause a distortion in space and time.
Simply put: the black hole of Maddy not being there yesterday caused time to fold in on itself, and I posed in the same place, nearly seven years later... the time it take for all the cells in our bodies to replace themselves... because I was drawn by cosmic forces back to when she stood at my side.
When the orbits of our lives and busy schedules align, we'll walk the Brooklyn Bridge together some other Saturday, I am sure.
Until then, I reread my diary from nearly seven years ago. I wrote about a family dinner the night before Maddy left for college. It was at an Edgewater, N.J., restaurant called Vespa's (no longer there) -- and I was in such a cranky mood that I downed Peroni after Peroni.
I was dreading the drive back that night with just the four of us -- my wife, both daughters and me -- heading, as one, to the same "home" for perhaps the last time in our lives.
My wife did the driving, and I kept asking her to drive slower and slower. If she could drive slow enough, I said, time would reverse itself and Maddy could stay with us a little longer.
I know... I know... I can't keep her by my side forever.
Still, I texted her last night to let her know I had been on the Brooklyn Bridge again, and that I was thinking of her.
She responded right away: "Cool! Did you take any good pictures?"
I sent her this panorama of Manhattan, from the perspective of Brooklyn:
This morning I'm wondering if this photo is a metaphor for my perspective on the lives of both of my daughters.
I love New York. It's unique in all the universe. Sometimes, from where I now stand, it seems beyond my reach.
And yet, there's a bridge that will get me there. I know it will always lead to another grand adventure.
Yesterday, I walked across the bridge alone. I had started out at a photo meetup, but I raced ahead of the rest of the group, driven by cosmic forces. Literally.
The proof? Here's a photo Maddy took of me on May 22, 2011:
Same hat, same hoodie, same me... just older.
In 2018, I have learned to appreciate the theory of relativity, the space-time continuum, and the love fathers feel for their daughters.
A book I listened to this past week ("Light Falls: Space, Time, and an Obsession of Einstein," by Brian Greene)... a book I didn't particularly like... reminded me that massive objects cause a distortion in space and time.
Simply put: the black hole of Maddy not being there yesterday caused time to fold in on itself, and I posed in the same place, nearly seven years later... the time it take for all the cells in our bodies to replace themselves... because I was drawn by cosmic forces back to when she stood at my side.
When the orbits of our lives and busy schedules align, we'll walk the Brooklyn Bridge together some other Saturday, I am sure.
Until then, I reread my diary from nearly seven years ago. I wrote about a family dinner the night before Maddy left for college. It was at an Edgewater, N.J., restaurant called Vespa's (no longer there) -- and I was in such a cranky mood that I downed Peroni after Peroni.
I was dreading the drive back that night with just the four of us -- my wife, both daughters and me -- heading, as one, to the same "home" for perhaps the last time in our lives.
My wife did the driving, and I kept asking her to drive slower and slower. If she could drive slow enough, I said, time would reverse itself and Maddy could stay with us a little longer.
I know... I know... I can't keep her by my side forever.
Still, I texted her last night to let her know I had been on the Brooklyn Bridge again, and that I was thinking of her.
She responded right away: "Cool! Did you take any good pictures?"
I sent her this panorama of Manhattan, from the perspective of Brooklyn:
This morning I'm wondering if this photo is a metaphor for my perspective on the lives of both of my daughters.
I love New York. It's unique in all the universe. Sometimes, from where I now stand, it seems beyond my reach.
And yet, there's a bridge that will get me there. I know it will always lead to another grand adventure.
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