Yesterday, the boy I’ve been in love with for two and a half years took me walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. I had never done that before, and that in itself was a treat. He had given me a key earlier that day, hoping to clue me in into what we would be doing that day. It occurred to me, as we got farther away from Manhattan, that there were a growing number of padlocks locked onto the bridge. They were written on, engraved, and dedicated to an immeasurable number of couples who had lovingly placed their locks there. They served as a reminder of a love that wasn’t so much locked away-but steady, real, and solid.
We locked our love on the bridge, kissed our keys, and threw them into the East River. We then proceeded to ride a carousel encased in a glass box, overlooking the river, just in sight of the Statue of Liberty. We also ate too much pizza and helped a foreign man figure out his check.
It was a day of simple and unrushed romance, set against the backdrop of my favorite city.
It was a day she might have written.
Thank you, Nora, for making me cry endless tears of joy and gut-busting laughter, showing me how much the city of New York has to offer, and thank you for writing some of my most beloved romances.
You are missed dearly.