We walked together, stalling time, over the hill
of lemon-lime. The triangle of moon-earth-and sky
was up above our heads. There was a dainty frisson
to each part of the moment. Some Cadillac guy with
his silver car drove by. He waved, at nothing really.
Outside of this, most other things were the same :
balloon boys, a kid with a fake pistol, light-saber
kids, and a few straight mothers doing their kiddie
tasks. The Hudson River was bowling boats, or
things running down, along its shiny face.
How the world comes to these points, I'll never
know. Forty years before, there was a boy's orphanage;
here, right on this spot. Now, just nothing but grass.
There's a writer who's written about this - I
almost forget, but I enjoyed the tense story.
'Motherless Brooklyn' was the name of that book.
It all coming back now - Jonathan Franzen was the
writer. I remember. I remember. I remember things.