In the springtime, most of Yale is abloom. The Cross Campus lawn is not. It isn’t allowed to be. People cross it in droves every day, bringing soccer balls and blankets and cleats and tables and signs to push down into the quick of the dirt. They do yoga in the mornings, and they carry their boxed chicken caesar salads from Uncommon there at lunch, sprawling out with laptops, taking off their shoes, staring at the people billowing past in packs. The effect is magnetic. One person strolling across the lawn beckons dozens of others to abandon the pathway and forge full speed ahead, trampling the turf to mud. Then they move on: off and away.
A shotgun at the door
It’s difficult for me to imagine it: a 20-gauge shotgun and box of shells at the door beside the umbrella stand Nanny bought not long after they bought their house. The umbrellas were question marks, wondering when rainy days would arrive. The gun was an exclamation.