New York

Williamsburg Bridge. April 2021

He thought he might burst. He thought he lived in a city. He thought he’d remember the energy, storefronts, restaurants, scaffolding. He walked the streets with new strains in his ankles; his shins. It had been eight years since he’d last lived in a city that teemed with life. He sat in a park and watched the energy rise up like a dust storm and kick out across the avenues. He was bewildered. He was transfixed. He was closer to the heart of the city than he’d ever been and he was scared. He crossed the streets with an ever increasing alertness. He noted the bagel shops, sake bars, and corner-stores he used to frequent. He continued down side streets, park-fronts, avenues. He skated off corners and fell down flights—staring up at street signs like forgotten one night stands. He remembered the essence, but not the details. He remembered which way was East, but could’t tell you what lay on the block. His imagination created a new reality from the past he remembered, but nothing remembered him. How delightful he thought as he pushed past another building from his young adulthood; how delightful he thought—sitting on the bench facing West. The people passed by in droves. No one said hello or excuse me or nice to meet you, in fact, no one spoke to him at all. And yet, the feeling of being alone on a park bench in front of thousands of passerby’s—invisible—was like a relative to him. It had been awhile since they last saw one another. But he remembered her instantly, and commented on how long it’s been how good she looked and how he missed her so.