Four months into aveilus, life has fallen into a pattern
Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge is a rite of passage for many.
They come from all over, mostly tourists who have one thing in common — an obsession for this unlovely city by the river. They swarm across, by car, on foot, on bikes and scooters.
I remember the first time I drove over this bridge myself, across the span to the tight turn onto FDR Drive. It was so high, it reminded me of the impossibly steep hills on the roller coasters of my youth, and for a second I feared my car would fly straight off the side, falling end over end into the river below.
The bridges that connect Manhattan and Brooklyn are inextricably entwined with my childhood. Some of my earliest memories revolve around Sunday afternoon visits to my grandparents who stuck it out on the Lower East Side long after the great migration to Boro Park and Flatbush happened.
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