I rested my hand lightly on the balustrade at the edge of a balcony on the 23rd floor of New York’s Essex House Hotel. Across 57th Street the green of Central Park stretched away towards the North. The street sounds were muffled by the sleepy quiet of the spring Sunday morning. They were so muffled that we were even able to hear the “clip-clop” of the carriage horses on Central Park Drive. Up by the center of the park, by the lake, we saw youths playing a game of ‘pick-up’ ball. At the lake’s edge a forlorn child lost his grip on the string holding his helium balloon and it glided off across the tree tops.

I picked up my mimosa and gazed deeply into Mary’s smiling eyes.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

Bob Kelly