Nostalgia’s vague presence settles over me as I recall visiting my Dad at work in the Cooper Square offices of the New Hermes Engraving Machine Company decades ago. This weekend marks his yahrzeit; he died four years ago after the Jewish fast day Tisha B’av, which commemorates the destruction of the Temple. The children of Israel sank to an all time spiritual low, but a glimmer of hope redeems them at the end. Moses (Moshe) also speaks from his near deathbed as we start reading the fifth book of the Torah. My Dad, Morris Kaufman, was also a Moshe. His words come to me in images of his beloved Village (East and Greenwich, that is). This one’s for him: In the chill heat, July blankets the city like a warm snow. Passengers underground spread their gloomy cheer in shrill conversations with their devices. The subway is no cocoon. Stepping outside, the mind creates a cloudy mirror, a mirage of possibility, turning the day in its favor. I select its delights, ignoring the tiny giant cracks in the baked sidewalks along Eighth Street. Ramen shops have replaced the tattoo parlors and earring emporiums of my youth. The Bohemian hipsters look too affluent to be authentic. Iced tea is $4, Lattes $5. Oatmeal with chia seeds, $9. Morris, a salesman and artist, took us for $5 blintz lunches at the Ukrainian Restaurant and to sidewalk art shows. Today’s gentrified Village might jar him but also appeal to his urban sensibility and artistic scrutiny. Where have all the starving artists gone? What’s that monstrosity on the Bowery? What idiot spends $5 on coffee? Who do you remember? What is there legacy to you in all its complexities?