Listening to Bird play his plastic saxophone on an autumn day. I stroll through the park and watch squirrels collect acorns and boys kiss girls. Horse-drawn carriages carry couples, waving as they pass by; blowing kisses at peasants, laughing.

Bird blows How High The Moon, and I drink coffee from a paper cup. Count change in my pocket. Hum to the tune. How high the moon? Broke again. Broke again.

Do Not Feed The Pigeons, the sign says. Jim Carroll called them “rats with wings.” I watch them as they coo. Listening to their song as Bird hits his final note. They bob their heads, and I nod.

Trane comes on and preaches Central Park West. I walk over streams and look at fields covered in picnic blankets. Men and women feed each other strawberries and cream. Drinking cups of Champagne. Smiling.

You can never look back at the past. You have to be happy in the moment, she reminds me. Yes, happy in the moment. Taking in each moment.

It’s 8:24. Twenty-four past eight.