During spring and summer, the morning light cuts between the Manhattan buildings and lands on the corner of Watts Street and Sixth Avenue at a low slant. The contrast of light and shadow that it paints across the building fronts is a scene I’ve enjoyed many times, walking by on the last leg of my morning commute.
It’s also home to Lupe’s, a Mexican diner with a mom-and-pop feel that’s claimed that spot for the last few decades—an eternity in the brutal chronology of New York City restaraunts. But like so many during the time of coronavirus, they’re struggling.
This coming week will mark two months since my office disbanded physically, overnight, and became a remote operation. We—all of us, everywhere—continue to wonder what we’ve lost for good, and what, like that light, will remain.