They were two Hasidic Jews—must have been in their late 70s at least—who would sit on a bench inside Central Park next to a playground across from Mount Sinai Hospital’s entrance on Fifth Avenue and 98th Street. They would feed the pigeons with breadcrumbs. I used to talk with them. I was maybe five or six.

One day I decided to give them a gift. I found some pieces of glass, no doubt from broken beer bottles left from teenagers mixing their alcohol with their LSD. Having placed the shards on top of a patty I fashioned with moist dirt, I ran to the men, excited to present my sparkling creation. Of course, I tripped and fell, cutting my left hand deeply enough to require stitches, which were provided in short order from the hospital.

I have no recollection of interacting with the men after that day, and I have a scar where the thumb meets my palm.

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