1067. SHE LIVES UPSTAIRS

SHE LIVES UPSTAIRS
Yes, and the boa harp, the stern arm, the rigid
fist - one and all of these things, reminiscent
of what might have been, now are but symbols
on some sick coat-of-arms. Framed by nothing,
but mounted kingly on a broad-room wall, even
the lowest servant must bend a knee.
-
I am talking to Nancy Ransom on the shore of
the Hudson River. Across the way, the other shore,
the massive ramparts of West Point are to be seen.
'The United States Military Academy' she says,
gesturing. 'How'd you like to be me, having to wake
up to that each morning?' I shrug and say it will
never change - 'at least you're sure of continuity?'
-
I phrase it as a question to see what she will say.
'Don't be so sure of that, my friend, the way
things are changing these days.' She runs
a small antique and art store in her little
town across the river from the fort.
Her windows front the river; she
lives upstairs.
-
Accidental prayer? No such thing.
Momentary lapse? Happens often enough.
We both watched the flags flapping over
the river, and wondered at the emergence of
wind. Bannerman's Island? 'Yes', she said,
'it was up there somewhere, out at Cold Spring.
All ruins itself, ever see it?' I had to answer, 'no'.