I used to love to go to Roosevelt Island when I lived in New York City. It was free, to wait in line with the tourists and board the little red box floating on a cable in the sky. Across the East River, and onto Roosevelt Island.
I had an acquaintance who called to tell me that she’d be in New York for the day. I had no stable place to stay but my employer who I lived with told me I could bring her over. I declined and went out to meet her in the driving rain. All day it rained, so I took her to Roosevelt Island.
I look back and I can see her wondering eyes. Standing in line with the tourists with all her luggage to board a little red box floating in the sky. Across the East River, and onto Roosevelt Island. Where we landed and stayed in the landing area because it was raining. It seemed perfectly normal. Her happy eyes, and poncho. Her luggage. I look back and it was weird of me. Why would I do that? To help her back up with her luggage, to wait in line with the tourists and board, with sadness, a trip across the river away from my happiness that I wanted to share, on Roosevelt Island.