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The Brooklyn Shore
by Lilit
There are two men who have enhanced the love I have for my particular corner of Brooklyn, each in his own way. The first was my first real friend when I settled into my house near the bridge, taking me along with him to coffee shops and diners and friends' apartments. The happiest place I think I know is the roof of his apartment building. They do have stars in New York City, I tell my mom back in the South, but they are not the constellations I used to count and rename on a porch in Maggie Valley. Instead from the roof I see the city sprawled out like a sparkling, tremendous parade.
I used to have a terrible sense of direction, lost on roads I'd taken every day. Even though only part of it is on a grid, I have memorized enough of the starlit landmarks in this city to know which north is north and which water is closest to home. Queens is a reachable, inhalable object from that place seven floors above the earth, and there is an instinct for navigation I have that I have never had in me before. This is North. This is two miles away. This is true.
One of the men showed me an entire neighborhood from high above everything, one piece at a time. The other showed me one piece at a time, ensuring that it could be everything.
I have promised to call him tomorrow, but he has not promised to answer. This morning when I was too lonely to get out of bed there were seagulls gossiping on my block, and I remembered that I live next to the sea. This neighborhood is not a port anymore. Boats do not go by at midday, bellies swelling with cargo. My window is not high enough to have a view of the water, but I still believe it is there. I have promised to call him tomorrow, but he has not promised to answer.
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