A Storyby Maureen Burgess
The man and the boy crossed Fifty-Ninth Street at the avenue and followed the curving sidewalk into Central Park, down to the carousel. The boy, a slight figure with loose brown curls framing his forehead, released the man’s hand the moment they were in the park. Both put their hands in their pockets against the morning chill; both wore tweed blazers too thin for an early-April Sunday.
“I think you need a scarf,” said Hugh to his son.
“You look cold.”
“I’m not. Just my hands.”
“Gloves, then. We can go back if you like.”