I visited New York City once, many years before 9/11, before I met my husband, before our daughters, before everything that comprises our intertwined lives now. This time, after several flight delays and an eerily quiet train ride from the Newark Airport, we arrived in Times Square in the middle of the night, where we stepped out of a taxi, collected our bags and gazed at an overwhelming display of movement and light all around us. After checking in to our hotel, we took an elevator to a room on the fifty-fourth floor and collapsed into its welcome stillness, far above the din of voices and music in what seemed to me to be a city that is never truly quiet.

I'm not sure when I lost my favorite cardigan, the dark gray button-up one that I had bought at Old Navy at least 15 years ago. I prefer old things, used clothing when it's in good condition and secondhand books, novels whose worn pages remind me of childhood and my grandma's house and the aromas of milky tea and wood smoke; this cardigan, though new at the time, had, I recall, been on sale. I've paired it with striped pencil skirts for parent teacher conferences, with tank tops and over-sized denim overalls for grocery shopping, with sweatpants for checking the mail when autumn's initial chill bleeds through the remnants of a long summer's oppression. This sweater has never frayed, never pilled after being washed; I've taken care to hang it dry each time. It has seen happiness and tears and anger, humid summer nights and smoky campfires and brittle rust-colored leaves littering the sidewalk in front of our house, arguments born of petty resentments, cocktails and warm cinnamon rolls and a memorable blizzard that kept us at home for a whole week.

That first morning in New York, I awoke before anyone else, feeling disoriented and displaced, and lifted the shade that covered the large window. Looking down over the streets had a slightly dizzying effect; I stood and thought about how surreal that moment felt. There was a long line of bright yellow taxis paralleling the length of the street; there was a glimpse of the Hudson River to my right and, to the left, buildings tightly grouped together with their tall spires stretching toward the clouds, light and shadows everywhere, a beautiful sense of discord inundating the soundlessness of Times Square's chaos far below.

A block from our hotel, we discovered what would end up being one of the week's highlights in a small Korean fusion restaurant called UT47. A glance at the posted menu revealed both vegan and non-vegan options; my husband and I were confident that there would be something for everyone. There was no waiting, a pleasant surprise; a petite woman with pale skin and dark hair escorted us to an outside table at the back of the restaurant; the patio was enclosed, with large fans running that didn't detract from the hum of the busy street beyond. I ordered an oat milk latte, made with lavender syrup and garnished with a frothy swirled heart. I remember gasping aloud after the first warm sip, asking Chris if he wanted to try it; a deliciously floral sweetness tangled with espresso and milk on my tongue.

Chris and I still daydream aloud about the exquisite presentation of that meal, his softly scrambled eggs and toast and greens – those greens – dressed lightly in olive oil and lemon juice and black sesame seeds, the tall glass of fresh orange juice laced with apple juice and fresh ginger, our copper cups of water, cool to the touch. I ate piping hot, creamy tomato soup and thick multigrain bread toasted and topped with a perfectly ripe avocado, organic mixed greens, arugula, fried onions, roasted pumpkin seeds and hemp seeds; in one of the avocado halves quivered a little pool of soy sauce. More black sesame seeds dotted my plate. When the server had brought our food, she'd kindly explained the extras that she had included for us; on my plate was a tiny vegan, gluten-free blueberry muffin that tasted of cardamom and lemon zest; the delicate crumbs had seemed to melt with each bite. The intense humidity that we would feel later in the day wasn't yet noticeable; I know that I didn't have my cardigan that morning, because it was still tucked away in my suitcase.

We took our daughters to a baseball game at Yankee Stadium that evening. Outside there were men stationed periodically along the building's perimeter; each wore a stern expression and held an AK-47; the sight of the men and their weapons was unnerving to me. I was overcome, for a moment, by the sickening knowledge that such security protocol had been deemed necessary for the event. The line of people moved slowly along towards the metal detector that we were required to pass through, and then, finally, we were inside.

The stadium's interior was a noisy but not unpleasant juxtaposition of people and alcohol and the aromas of fried food. Seated directly in front of us were two children, all dark curls and wide brown eyes and small hands grasping at their mothers, one of them a pale blonde woman with a somber expression and the other whose petite, exotic beauty reminded me of Sandra Oh. The women never spoke to each other, seeming to studiously avoid eye contact, until the latter picked up the younger of the two children and left, diaper bag in tow. An hour passed and still the woman and baby didn't return; the blonde woman glanced behind us periodically, her gaze scanning the crowd in apparent concern. The little girl in her arms began to look back as well, worry evident in her eyes; the woman held her on her lap, her own body language gentle and reassuring. Eventually, the other woman came back, but there was no communication between the two females, and later, the blonde was left alone for the remainder of the game; I watched her sit or stand, drinking beer, eating popcorn without seeming to really be aware of what she was doing, her gaze pensive but somehow vacant. It occurred to me that her baseball cap and loose, faded blue jeans paired with an over-sized white tee shirt may have been worn, however unconsciously, as a sort of androgynous armor against the world, an attempt to be invisible and therefore unnoticed in a crowd; her blunt bob didn't quite conceal the beginnings of fine lines around her beautiful blue eyes. She was someone, I thought in that moment, who loved and felt deeply. After a while, a lone man at the end of the row, buoyed, perhaps, by fresh beers brimming at the edges of two tall cups, moved over to sit beside her, and they began to earnestly discuss their failed relationships.

"I'm the one holding on," the woman said to him, near the end of the game, just before the scheduled fireworks show began. "I can't let go."

The two hugged and then the man left. I still wonder where she went that night, the blonde woman whose quiet sadness reminded me of the character Miss Lonelyhearts in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window. I know that I didn't have my cardigan with me that evening, because I had tied a red plaid flannel shirt around the waist of my denim shorts. We slowly made our way out of the stadium and walked to the subway platform, where we got onto the train that would take us back to the quiet coolness of our hotel, a respite from the blur of the crowds and the sweltering heat. I wonder if the woman went home to an empty apartment or if her partner and their two children were waiting there for her. I wonder if they ever addressed the catalyst for their unhappiness; I wonder if they agreed that the relationship was dead.

It's possible that I lost my cardigan the following morning in the huge Starbucks across the street; we had stopped there after eating breakfast and I don't remember whether or not I'd taken the sweater with me to the hotel restaurant. The server had been so kind and accommodating when she'd realized that I'm vegan, ensuring that there was no butter on the toast and bringing me small bowls of fresh fruit and avocado and fried potatoes that she'd said had been cooked in oil instead of butter. Later, we'd stopped at the Van Leeuwen shop in Times Square for ice cream; the vegan strawberry shortcake flavor was incredible, the cold and creamy dessert that I hadn't known I was craving until we'd joined the long line waiting outside. I licked melted drips from the side of my cup as we walked back to our hotel room, where we ate and talked in the long afternoon shadows.

There is a photo that I took the next day, showing a glimpse of blue-green motion from the long skirt I'd been wearing and one of my daughter Molly's feet raised in its mint green Converse; the light tones had reminded me of the ocean in Miami. To my right is a dark shadow which I've thought about in retrospect, wondering if it could have been my cardigan, hanging from the long strap of my purse, but there's no way of knowing for sure. We took the train to somewhere north of the Battery Park area, then walked to One World Trade Center and the 9/11 Memorial. It felt surreal, I told my family, to remember that during my previous visit to New York, I had sat in a restaurant called Windows on the World, located in the North Tower, and had a drink; I remember that the dining room had been designed to rotate ever so slowly, so that patrons were able to enjoy a gradually changing view of Manhattan's skyline. It was strange, thinking of a time that had existed before, people whose lives had been extinguished in that very spot; the knowledge that we were so privileged to be able to stand there, whole and intact, was incredibly sobering.

It was clear to me by that evening, as we freshened up and got ready for a highly anticipated Hamilton performance at the Richard Rodgers theater, that my cardigan was, in fact, long gone; I tried to hide my disappointment from my children, reminding myself of the trivial nature of that object. Chris told me that we could buy another one, then offered his long-sleeved light gray tee shirt in case I was chilly later. Upon entering the theater, I impulsively ordered a Hamiltini, an impressively overpriced vodka-sour apple liqueur-gin concoction that made me feel flushed, loose; the performance was so incredible that I nearly cried. None of us wanted the experience to end.

The next day, we walked around SoHo and the NYU area, stopping to wander through an unexpected gem right in the middle of the city: the LaGuardia Corner Community Garden, whose sign stated that it was open to the public; Molly and I followed a narrow, pebbled path through the garden's colorful landscape. Later, we came upon Washington Square Park, where a large fountain set in the park's center misted us with cool water. There was a vintage shop filled with overpriced clothing that hung on racks and was stuffed into bins. We stopped at the famed Strand Bookstore in the East Village and looked for compelling titles; I stopped to take a few photos of the most interesting shadows, harsh intersecting lines that flooded the building's exterior and sidewalk. Greenwich Village was a quiet little dream, evoking memories of You've Got Mail and the cheerful brownstone that Meg Ryan's character had inhabited. That evening, in Grand Central Terminal, I shot an impromptu photo of someone's broom and mop bucket, seemingly abandoned for the moment; the various transitory scenes all week had both interested and saddened me; just a few minutes later, we found ourselves in Grand Central Terminal, a stunning display of architecture and artwork and other tourists.

"Just think," Chris said, pointing to the East Balcony, where one of the John Wick 3 scenes had been filmed, "Keanu Reeves was right here."

I've thought about that week every day since we left. I've wondered about the people we met, the frenetic energy of the city, the sometimes overwhelming intensity of it all. I've wondered who may have taken or found my old gray cardigan; I wonder if someone slipped it out of the crook in my arm, somewhere in a crowd, or if it simply fell as we walked. I hope that it keeps someone else warm on chilly autumn nights and that its next iteration of life will be as full as the one before.