You have it down pat, she says casually, you should just work here. We joke that she can pay me in the cheap beer I come to drink at all hours anyway, if I just check vaccine cards and direct people to the bathrooms. Walking home later, the first sweatshirt evening of the season, swinging north to seventh street to check in on the little station wagon, I think it's not a bad idea really. Isn't this what community is?
At home, in the quiet little apartment above the deli, the television revisits a sunny September morning twenty years ago now. So impossibly long ago, yet present in every passing day on these south Manhattan streets. Outside the bedroom window, two bright beams soar into the sky. We never forget because we are made to remember. Bodies falling out of windows.
September is impossibly beautiful this year, clear, quiet, saying nothing of impending doom. Across the ocean, your homeland lifts all restrictions related to the hijacking of life as you knew it. The lesson isn't ready to make itself known yet.
You carry on.
No comments:
Post a Comment