The pandemic has forced many of us to rethink our lives, not least of which is how we work. For me, it meant returning home
Ten days before our birthday, I drove my 2005 blue Nissan Sentra over the Verrazano Bridge and let the tears roll out. He didn’t know it, but I was almost home. The Verrazano spills into Brooklyn, where Scott and I entered the world.
We were born a little after 11am on 28 July 1994 in Maimonides hospital, fraternal twins. “Two boychiks!” my father boasted, still in his blue scrubs, as he burst into the waiting room. The cheering section – two grandmas, two grandpas – erupted.
