Читать книгу Dear Prudence - David Trinidad - Страница 11

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The photographs

we took of

the five of us—

my mother

(now dead),

my two sisters

(one estranged),

and Ira and me

(“divorced”)—

on the observation deck

of the South Tower:

locked away with

the rest of my past

in my archive

at NYU.

Weighing heavily

on us that clear

blue spring day in

1990: the stress of

entertaining my relatives,

in town for my

graduation from

Brooklyn College.

Ira, the seasoned

native, me

still green, “schlepping”

(an Ira word) these

even more naive

Californians around

the Big Apple—

from the Statue

to Times Square, from

the city’s dark intestine

(my mother bravely

facing her fear

of the subway) to

the Top of the World.

My first time up there

and my first full-blown

attack of vertigo:

legs shaking

uncontrollably and

stomach contracting

as the tower swayed

and creaked

(did it creak?

I remember

it creaking)

and the unreal gray

concrete far below

and the vast

equally unreal

sky (we were in it!)

began to blur

together and

revolve. I

couldn’t wait to

get to the elevator.

My family and boyfriend

smiled and posed

for photographs.

While I felt that

unexpected dread

rise up in me and

threaten to tip the

world upside down.

The air too high to

breathe. The whole

continent buckling

towards the west.

Heart pounding out

its quandary.

Everything—

two years of studies,

the huge blue

spring sky, my

mother poised at

the fire escape

window of

our SoHo loft

transfixed by the

noise of Manhattan,

the uncertainties

of work and of

friendships (more

and more lost

the more I changed)

and of my new

future with Ira—

no way to keep

it from revolving

and creaking

and swaying, no

way to make it

slow down.