The first song my son heard in his life – in a 12th-floor delivery room of Mt. Sinai West, a few minutes after the doctor and delivery nurse left us – was “Pink Moon” by Nick Drake.

Luca was born six days ago, shortly after sunset. Just 16 days ago, we moved into our new apartment in Washington Heights.

Barely a week in, Luca is spoiled lousy with epic views on New York. From  Christina’s recovery room, we could see helicopters over the Hudson, Times Square and all the way to Freedom Tower downtown.

When we read him “The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge” in his new bedroom, he can look out the window and gaze upon them.

(I guarantee this is all the more impressive when shrouded in fog, as Jóhann Jóhannsson’s beguiling IBM 1401: A User’s Manual plays in the background, while a newborn child sleeps before you.)

Shortly before he was born, a colleague asked how I was feeling about becoming a parent.

Resolved, I answered. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know it will challenge me. And I intend to rise to this challenge as best I can.

When I think about the arc of my life, that journey from an old Toyota truck on LA freeways to a Washington Heights apartment with a small family, I think sometimes about distinct chapters: the chapter in my life called in-unit laundry, the chapter of my life called Central Park.

What I see ahead is not merely a new chapter, but a whole new book.

This is how one book ends.

It’s time to write a new one.