By Margery Hannah
How are the imaginations of New York City children fostered without the ability to look up and see stars? Perhaps the New York City skyline sufficiently espouses the greatness of man, placing a seed in the mind of its youth that all things are possible; maybe it is the sheer beauty of the lights sustaining the wonder of its children. An island with over eight million people, each containing stardust, provides enough energy to recognize human ability; if one knows the ability of man, shouldn’t one recognize the power of God? And, if one sees a person, is one not seeing a star?
I pondered such while sitting on a blue velvet sofa in my then waterfront apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, Versace pillows supporting my back and a wall of books to my left, happy to be free at last of the boxes holding them inside a mouse-infested storage unit in the Bronx for the past four years while my children and I navigated life without a home of our own. I’d pondered how I would get my books back, where they would be housed over the past few years. What a foolish way to waste time, trying to discern God’s methodology.
To my right was a large mounted flat screen television silently reminding me I needed only push the menu button to access any number of channels I never watched anyway. Underneath the mounted flat screen a whitewashed, hand carved chest held antique ivory figurines, gifts from Ms. Kelly, the neighborhood pianist from the place I’d fled, and mercury glass candle holders, toted home from a company gala. Inside the pale hutch a stockpile of haircare, skincare, fingernail polish and other personal care products were stored. I exhaled at the knowledge everything I once prayed for I had.
Still, as majestic as the East river and the Manhattan skyline is from the water walk by that building, as illuminating as the Independence day fireworks viewed right from my bedroom window that first July had been, the stars remain hidden.
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Chelle A. Carter-Wilson
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