Cider Mornings

We spent Saturday mornings downtown at Battery Park.
The air smelled of September mornings-apple spice, cinnamon, cider, and the faintest
hint of crisp wind blowing off the waterfront.
The sun warmed our backs through the cotton of our shirts as we strolled along. You held my hand tight as I hobbled over the cracked, treacherous sidewalks, my arms straining from the use of aluminum crutches.

Your laughter filled the silent spaces and you smiled wide as you kissed my cheek.
Time slowed down, froze even, as we wandered the maze of the Farmers' Market.

It was a zoo of crude, wooden stalls, each hailing a brightly colored banner and boasting their goods for sale in larger print. My eyes combed each and every one, sometimes staring wide at things I'd never heard of or seen. My mouth watered to taste every delicious smelling food before me-pastries,chalupas, strudels, croissants, locally grown corn, cucumbers, tomatoes. My hand itched to run my fingers over the soft, woven scarves, make the wind-chimes sing in the breeze, or rifle through the hand-photographed cards.

Our caravan always ended up at the same apple stall. Despite my protests, you always purchased cider donuts-six for five dollars, and two small cups of apple cider.
You'd take my hand and lead me through the gangs, over the soft-packed dirt and moist grass, to the steps of City Hall. We'd climb to the top of the first landing and nestle into the furthest corner, backs resting against the cool stone.

You'd reach into the plastic baggie, and hand me a lukewarm donut,
sticky with cinnamon and a sprinkle of sugar. I'd break the donut into
pieces and take tiny bites.

You always laughed when I did that-and smile when I closed my eyes
and savored every delicious cinammon-sugary crumb.