They stopped selling MetroCards last week.

The golden ticket

made of plastic with blue letters you kept in your wallet, good for going anywhere —

from the cuchifritos at Melrose to Nathan’s at Coney Island, and when New York loosened its collar, to the front gates of the chocolate factory.

Back then one swipe opened the whole city.

Gracefully. But not habitually.

Sometimes the turnstiles were not so forgiving, and if no one was looking you hopped the bar with your heart beating faster than the train pulling in.

Days were longer back then. Nights came so suddenly, crossing dates off in a row.

I once knew four turtles in the sewers of Astoria, raging at the peak of their adolescence, tearing through the pipes like there was no tomorrow.

And young mermaids of Far Rockaway, laughing with salt on their lips, pulling moonlight through their hair while I watched the stars glisten.

Will I be forgotten the way the city forgets its softest moments — like the orange-blue sunsets over the Manhattan Bridge, as hopeless romantics on the train turn to the windows so no one would catch the light reflecting off their cheek, hoping the hum between stations could hide their sniffles

as rain turned to snow and crossing lights changed on empty roads,

clearing the way for semi trucks feeding oil to the machine.

Now the gates blink green without touching. The system functions cold —

Twenty-four-hour surveillance, with little reminders of the rules you’re expected to follow.

Smarter.

Better.

Faster.

That’s good to know.

I was never meant to be the final boat you row.

As the decades close, old technologies erode. There are bridges you don’t cross anymore.

Maybe I was meant to hand it back to you — the good and the bad, the golden and the bruised, the nights that opened for you and the ones that swallowed you whole.

Somewhere in Little Italy they still serve nostalgiato — sweet on some days, bitter on others, depending on what the heart can bear to remember.

It’s the memory of the places you’ve been with the people you loved that stays.

Same for a MetroCard, replaying your life as I fade away.