The last few times I walked through the East Village, there were so few familiar bars, restaurants, and stores. It felt as if I was looking through a dense veil and only able to see the faintest glow of my memories, a dim shine overlaid on the scene before me. Sleepwalking through the streets.

The buildings and trees are pretty; the streets and avenues are still familiar. But the places where we laughed and played, lived, loved, and cried, have vanished. It’s all unfamiliar, until the surprise of one unchanged place would appear, luminous and rich with memories, against an otherwise inanimate backdrop.

I can see now, a day will come when I walk these streets and the last trigger will be gone. The last sign, the last venue, the last watering hole will have been replaced with something new. Other people will make their own memories. But I will no longer be able to summon the ones I treasure.