Spring in New York

Note: This essay was originally written in Chinese by me. The English translation below was created with Claude Haiku 4.5. If I have time in the future, I will translate the piece to English myself.

中文原文 (Original Chinese)

纽约四月的某个周日下午，我逼迫着自己走出那片狭小的牢笼。我已经忘记了当时的着装，大概穿了件半薄的卫衣外套和宽松的牛仔裤，就这么出了门。

街道上阳光明媚，鼻子里满是阳光和狗尿混杂的味道，听不清也看不见往来的车辆。路上偶尔有几个行人，但都很快消失不见。我的目的地只有一个，只要穿过那嘈杂的街道，便能抵达那片小小的天堂。

耳机将我和世界隔离。无声的世界里，我目睹粉色的雪花随风飞舞在空中，潮湿清甜的味道涌入我的鼻翼。沿着那条宽阔的自行车与人行道并行前行，是越来越清晰的人群。关山樱的花瓣厚重饱满，树枝几欲承受不住它们的重量，似乎下一秒就会坠落。树下是五颜六色的衣物组成的小团体，形形色色的笑声构成一支不协调却美妙的交响乐。我忍不住驻足，偷偷观察少女碎花连衣裙勾勒的曲线，男人脸上被阳光烤得焦黄的胡须，以及那条身形壮硕的猎犬。它正在野餐布上惬意地摇晃着尾巴，依偎在主人的身旁。

如果幸福有颜色，那它大概是春天的颜色。但我也说不清春天是什么颜色。或许是饱满的粉，明亮的黄，恬淡的蓝。又或许，它根本没有颜色。

走着走着我便放弃了既定的路线，这双漫无目的的鞋将带我去往何方，我便于何处停留。不知何时，印入眼帘的是淡蓝色的葡萄风信子小花，它们环绕着明黄的喇叭水仙。矮小的植株簇拥着各色的郁金香，有蜜桃色的，也有红酒色，还有奶油色的品种。这色彩搭配让人一方面感叹其组合毫无逻辑，一方面却又对于眼前的斑驳美感惊叹不已，像是有幸见证了一副技艺高超的叠色画家的作品。花簇的边缘有一块不起眼的小石板，上面写着”莎士比亚花园”。是谁赠予的，我已经忘了。但无所谓，我也不会在此地过久停留。

现在回忆起来，我想我当时是想走到湖边的。听说那里是春末夏初迁徙的候鸟常常停留的地方。不知不觉已经走了三十多个街区了，双脚却丝毫感觉不到疲惫，连胸腔里堆积的毒素都随着呼吸被风洗干净了。墨绿色的湖水里有一个载着两个人的小船。瘦削的男人费力地划动船桨，有些肥胖的女人似乎思绪已经飘远，并不在意爱人紧绷的手臂肌肉。或许，两人并不是爱侣，但我还是忍不住做了如此揣测。但我必须承认，我突然有些嫉妒他们，因为他们有小船，而我没有。

English Translation

On a Sunday afternoon in April in New York, I forced myself to escape from that cramped cage. I’ve forgotten what I wore that day—probably a light hoodie and loose jeans—but I stepped outside anyway.

The street was bathed in sunlight, my nose filled with the mingled scent of sunshine and dog urine. I couldn’t hear or see the passing traffic clearly. There was only one destination in mind: if I could just cross that chaotic street, I would reach my little paradise.

My earbuds isolated me from the world. In that silent realm, I watched pink snow-like petals dance through the air, their damp sweetness filling my nostrils. Along the wide bicycle path, the crowd grew denser. The cherry blossoms hung heavy and full on their branches, as if they might collapse under their own weight at any moment. Beneath the trees gathered clusters of people in colorful clothes, their laughter forming a discordant yet beautiful symphony. I couldn’t help but pause and steal glances—at the curves traced by a young woman’s floral dress, at the sun-scorched stubble on a man’s face, at a sturdy hunting dog wagging its tail contentedly on a picnic blanket, nestled against its owner.

If happiness had a color, it would be the color of spring. But I couldn’t quite say what color spring is. Perhaps it’s the fullness of pink, the brightness of yellow, the serenity of blue. Or perhaps it has no color at all.

As I walked, I abandoned my original route. Wherever these aimless feet would take me, that’s where I would stay. At some point, my eyes caught pale blue grape hyacinths surrounding bright yellow daffodils. Short stems clustered with tulips of various hues—peach, wine red, cream. This color combination was at once illogical and breathtakingly beautiful, like witnessing the masterwork of a skilled color-layering artist. At the edge of the flower beds stood an inconspicuous stone plaque that read “Shakespeare Garden.” I’ve forgotten who gave it that name, but it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t linger there long anyway.

Looking back now, I think I was heading toward the lake. I’d heard it was where migratory birds often stopped during late spring and early summer. Without realizing it, I’d walked over thirty blocks, yet my feet felt no fatigue. The toxins accumulated in my chest seemed to have been washed clean by the wind with each breath. On the dark green water floated a small boat carrying two people. A thin man struggled to row while a somewhat plump woman seemed lost in thought, indifferent to her companion’s taut arm muscles. Perhaps they weren’t lovers, but I couldn’t help speculating. I must admit, I felt a sudden envy of them—they had a boat, and I didn’t.

Written in April 2025