On Potluck and the Small Luck We Share
Summer’s almost over, which felt like the perfect excuse to get friends together. Yesterday I dragged a table up to the rooftop garden — the sky looked like a fading film still, with the last bit of light falling across everyone’s faces.
We all showed up with food, like pieces of our own stories: orzo salad, pork tacos, my roasted carrots and ceviche. Random combo, but somehow it all worked. We drifted into talking about travel and culture, and then someone asked, “When did you first feel like you belonged in this city?” Without missing a beat, everyone said, “Almost immediately!” Even though none of us are from here, New York has this way of pulling you in, you just want to see the sun rise and set here every day.
Time felt slower at the edge of the city. The breeze was cool, but not jacket weather yet. Summer’s leaving, but we didn’t want the night to end, holding onto a moment that won’t come back.
After all, in a lifetime, we only get about 80 summers.
That’s the thing about a potluck: it literally means bringing a little luck to the table. Maybe the real luck is this: a rooftop at sunset, good food, drinks, laughter, and friends, all overlapping just right.