A City('s) Love
““I have looked down across the city from high windows. It is then that the great buildings lose reality and take on their magical powers. They are immaterial; that is to say, one sees but the lighted windows.”
“Squares after squares of flame, set and cut into the Aether. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.” ”
Last Saturday, I sat in my bed, listening to a siren bite through the night. It wasn’t 7 pm - this was no cheer for those on the front lines, which couldn’t mean anything good. And just like it does every time, my heart broke a little - though, in a way, it was oddly comforting. It was a sound I’d heard long before these past months, and is a sound I’m bound to hear for long after.
I’ve been reticent to write anything about quarantine, whether it be on the internet or in the private realm of my journal; I’m acutely aware anything that I say could be triggering to someone else - we are all so affected differently by this, and I would never want to unintentionally make someone else’s day worse.
But as I watch lights switch on in the apartments across from mine every night (though less are lit up than normal - most people have left), I can’t help but be struck by a multitude of things. I tried my damnedest to get here - and in a way, what a privilege to weather the storm in a city I’ve always dreamt of living in. Of course, I can only say that on the good days, or when I’m trying to pull myself out of a bad one.
There is resilience woven into the very fabric of this city, no matter how the tapestry will change. I mustered up the courage to take a walk recently (a safe, socially distanced one), and I couldn’t shake the thought: This city is a heartbeat. My god, this city has fallen to its knees, and I don’t know when it will get back up, but it will fight until its last breath to stay afloat.
There is still beauty left - in the neighbors I watch converse daily from balcony to balcony, clapping and cheering for healthcare workers. Part of me aches to join in their interactions. Part of me knows I already am.
A man holds the elevator door for me as I struggle with a heavy package. His eyes smile above his mask, as he hits the button for my floor.
My usual takeout place writes a “thank you” on my box, signed with a heart. How I want to thank them, hope they weather the storm.
The one time I’ve gone out, I see small children laughing on the sidewalk. A teenager runs barefoot into the street, hair wet, asking her mother a question. How beautiful it is, these mundane interactions.
My doorman, with his unfailing energy, tells me of how he needs a haircut. How he remembers 9/11 and the smell of burning buildings for months after. Still he smiles.
On my worst days, I wonder just how long I’ll feel alone, if I do, if I have a right to feel anything at all. The tulips have begun to bloom, and the promise of a new season reminds me of a home I cannot reach.
Almost everyone I know has fled to the suburbs. They’ve all returned to steering wheels and multiple rooms and free, unadulterated space. I can’t help but think: the irony of losing the urban mobility. The curse of choosing a new home, to watch it become ravaged. To wonder, once again, what is home.
My world has been reduced to the view of my window, the walk from my bed to my kitchen. What a privilege that is.
Every day, I think of how the system has failed so many. Though words offer little now, I hope one day we will see how to fix this brokenness, to heal those disproportionately affected by this, through no choice of their own. How some are forced to be on the front lines, and never asked to be. How I wish we had already built a better world for you.
But there, on my walk, I see her - the same sight many immigrants have seen before me, sailing in boats, thinking of a promise of a better place. The Statue of Liberty still stands tall, beckoning to all those that see her, welcoming them home.
