The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade stops right in front of us, as my wife props our new baby at her breast to feed. The printouts on our bracelets read Monday’s date. A daisy on the breakfast tray. Our window refuses all L.A.; it wouldn’t open for God. Giant balloons sift through New York’s light rain and lift the planet ever so slightly, as if cheating a scale. I’m safe in here, eating my carryout cafeteria omelette, excused from work and under a spell induced by the lack of routine. A backward Proust, I bask in forgetting my life before today.