Sunday, June 3, 2018 7:36 AM

In the small park outside the House of a Hundred Grandmothers: men and women sit on or near benches, some in wheelchairs and some not, some with caregivers and some not. In a fenced-in play area, a boy and two girls, one much taller than the others, run in circles around two adults and a jungle gym. They start and stop abruptly. They might be playing something like tag or Mother May I, but from where I am, I can't tell. A deep blue motorcycle sits, as always, just outside the fence. Another one, painted identically, is often there but is gone right now. The bulletin board is empty. I've only ever seen death notices on it, but they last no more than a week. A stream of echoing orchestra music plays faintly from a nearby apartment. As I walk away, it is supplanted by the usual sounds of life on the narrow street: children, birds, and barking dogs. A trumpeter plays a solo from a window at the other end of the block. I hear him start, stop, play a worrying phrase several times, then start again. His sound disappears as I enter a second park on my brief walk home.