I miss New York. Even though I'm still in it—just locked away in the Heights, feeling the feels.

I miss being out and about the chaos. I really do. I miss the chaos. There can be days when it makes you want to pull your hair out, but it's also a kind of belonging and protection, a beehive. A bee doesn't feel out of place in the swarm. Even in my first weeks here. I knew I'd never want to leave...

Never a Misplaced Tree

Winter 2009

I haven’t figured it all out yet, here in New York City. Nor do I think this is ultimately possible. But I’ve only been here for days, not years. Maybe native New Yorkers feel that they know this city like their own sibling or child or grandmother. I do not. I know this city as I would know an ancient ancestor who speaks to me from a distance in my blood—intimately, but remote.

Regardless, I believe it is where I should be. The idea of being any other place in the world feels wrong— like a magnolia tree, standing upright towards the wind in Antarctica.

The man next to me is encouraging his elderly mother or aunt—this someone in his life—to eat more of her spinach before they share a sweet pastry. I listen to the sound of it, the sound of him speaking to her like a child. I wonder if she’s aware of it, if she’s ignoring it. It goes like this:

Pointing to some spinach on a Styrofoam plate, “Go ahead, now,” he presses. “Two more bites.”

“No,” she says weakly, as if she already knows she’ll lose the argument. “You go ahead. You’re a man. You should eat more than me.”

He picks up the fork, and creates a bite for her. “Come on. Here you go. Open doors.” He holds the fork ready at her lips.
She relents with a shrug, allowing him to feed her.

Like a scientist, he observes her chewing, gazing at the waddles of her throat swaying slowly, the near sideways, bovine quality of mastication.

Finally, she swallows.

His victory is apparent. No harm, no foul.

He quickly uses his plastic knife and fork to cut a bite of buttery pastry that’s been set aside for just this moment. “Now. Now you can have some dessert.”

There is a silence between them. Minutes pass before she stumbles upon her confession. “I’m…I’m meeting a new man on Sunday,” she says.

I can’t help but lean in.

“What?” he asks, bewildered and still working on the pastry, plastic knife be damned. “Are you dating?”

“No,” she says quietly, her eyes not quite focused on anything in particular. “We met at the Anti-Chamber Music Society. We’re going to play old music together…at my place.” The man shakes his head. Silence again.

Good for her! I think. Who cares if she’s dating at maybe…eighty years old. And when I think about it: who cares if she’s too old to hear the patronizing tone of his voice, or see the look of fear in his eyes as he attends to her needs? As annoying as it is. And really, who cares if she’s slowing turning into a shadow. Today, she’s still living, by god.

His frustration rides the length of his jaw. He does not approve. But I can’t be too hard on him. Regardless of his passive sins, somewhere in this man’s chest, his heart never ultimately turned to stone with his elder. He feels responsible for her—enough to make sure she eats her vegetables.

I look away, close my ears, and remove myself from their intimacy. Out of respect.
Even in this city, where the threat of loneliness and poverty seems to linger just outside of our peripheral vision, there are people caring for one another. I accept it. I take it in.

Last night friends put money together for me to take a cab from a theater in the West Village to a couch in the Upper East Side. I hadn’t been feeling well. Some kind of unknown something that made my head heavy and fuzzy at the same time. For someone like me with a history of rejecting help, I surprised myself, grateful I wasn’t alone.

Maybe that’s what makes this place so beautiful. Maybe here in this city, we are never really alone.

When I ride the subway during rush hour, I wonder about the people I am pressed up against. I wonder, as our bodies are literally leaning on one another, if this is the closest thing to human touch many will receive that day. I wonder if we truly sigh in relief as the doors open and our lives resume distinct and separate. Or if we sometimes hope the train carries us a few more stops—sardine-like through the tunnels. Loneliness kept at bay for a few additional moments.

Either way, I’m glad I’m here, and not a misplaced tree in Antarctica.