Small perspectives on home

On 104th street between 3rd and 2nd avenue is a microcosm of life in Spanish Harlem. On the North side of the street, just off the East and West corners, scaffolding and a local community garden's fencing have become open air markets. Markets for clothing, vinyl records, outdated electronics, cables and children's toys. All pre-owned, some unwashed, all with stories of their own. All tinged with the sadness of a history only known to them. 

The elderly women of the neighborhood peruse the items. All laid upon the pavement for display by merchants. Some struggling with addiction, some struggling with mental health and others struggling with both.

It feels both poignant and beautiful to witness. Broken hearts and broken stories litter the ground like bottles smashed against the pavement. 

I think of how trapped we become in the choices and stories of the generations that proceeded us. How roughly and weakly we all wriggle free of the suffocating cocoons our childhoods encase us in. Our stories dictated by both good and bad choices made, all to end our stories right where they began.

The sun sets and the Doñas wander indoors, taking refuge from the heat and the swing ups from the nod outs. Sheltered behind the steel doors of buildings bearing the names of old dead white men.

I wonder if anyone calls them to say goodnight, to tell them they are loved.

I wonder if they simply fall asleep to the prayers they utter. For their distant families and the lost souls they encounter. 

I wonder if those prayers are our saving grace.

Just the little edge of light that keeps the darkness from swallowing us all.

I wonder if I'll ever know.