When She Moved to New York

No one stopped to look. And that was okay, was all right, was for the best. When she moved to New York, a few people told her she would be missed. The few there were were close at least, loved her dearly and deeply, and that was a comfort. But now she is here, her hands cupped together, a clogged up hourglass filled with mocking sand and she is starting to remember what this feels like.

This is not Big Sky Country, nor rolling hilled farm country, nor dusty tornado country. This is not a small town in the middle of sun-baked corn fields, spotted with greasy spoons and broken down tractors. Watered down coffee and soggy french fries. This is not a forest humming with insect life, chattering in a foreign, animal language, ripe with vegetation, foliage, whispered secrets in every twig snap, every leaf flutter. This is not an open plain so close to the sky and the stars you will be driven mad with wonder, with knowing. This is not a place to rest, at the end of it all.

empirestateThis is the giant garbage patch in human form, bits and pieces and people that have drifted together and stuck, clinging desperately to one another, a life raft of humanity in an ocean of endangered species. This is the city time forgot and yet cannot forget, the land of buildings that shot up in the wake of some other, nameless history and a trail of tears older and longer than we care to admit. This is a long, endless sea lined with rocky, shell-shocked shores, reformed with every tide, every crash of a wave. This is an ant’s maze, tunnels and rooms connected forever in all directions, built and rebuilt and built and rebuilt. This place is angry, racist in the most sinister ways and yet impossibly tolerant. It is a train firing off in all directions, graffiti-ed and painted and sputtering and never obsolete, never out of commission. Always in use, always going, going, going.

This place is an homage to everything made, everything created with human hands. And now she is part of it, part of the homage, part of the painting, the mural, commissioned or no, it doesn’t matter. She is wide-eyed and wondering but always part of the picture. Of that she can be certain. And that is okay, is all right, is for the best.

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