 310 charred bricks stand like a little tower
Their defiance and resilience will never sour For many will fall and crumble But these brave bricks will never tumble Their ears have heard and their eyes have seen All the family memories that have been Residents laugh and residents cry And these bricks will not let those memories die The bricks are now strengthened by fire While all around is a smoking mire Homes aren’t rebuilt with clay and sand But rather, built on memories that will stand For victims of the Palisades fires 2025
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 Three hundred and twenty white lines monotonously scribed onto a wall next to my bed. I am like a withering prisoner wasting away in his prison cell, eyes wide with insanity. I tally up the days, giving a portion of purpose in an otherwise pointless life.
It has been almost three years since touching, hearing, or seeing a physical human. How will I react when I am released from the throes of captivity? Over time, friends become acquaintances, acquaintances become strangers, strangers become enemies. I stealthily peek out of the window, over the rooftops and buildings. An eerie void remains where the towers once stood, stretching up high into the sky, like two of Nimrod’s monstrous obelisks. The memories of that old skyline etched into my mind will never be forgotten, along with the people that returned to the dust from which they first came. My heart pounds faster and faster as perspiration oozes from my pores and my body temperature rises like a boiling pot on a stove, I jump back from the window, and back to the comfort of my cell, my safe space. Claustrophobia has turned to agoraphobia. I find comfort within my little space, wrapped tightly in a womb of protection and warmth. The slender hand of my subconscious wraps tightly around the pulsing throat of my reality. Slowly squeezing and pressing, starving my brain of oxygen. My enfeebled brain fabricates uncanny voices, whispering, and muttering. It would be rude for one not to reply when spoken to. So I spend my days talking to those who may or may not be residing with me, shadows and mysterious figures. Conversation, pontificating, and ranting fills the nights as I scribe another line onto the wall. Again, I peek out of the window. The city that never sleeps has finally tired out, the bustling streets now sit desolate and sequestered like a town in the Wild West. Tumbleweeds and dust now roam the sidewalks and streets, where busy feet once scurried. Down below are the coffin death trucks, full of unnamed corpses, bodies no one claims. The insidious air, invisible and treacherous, will send them to Hart Island. In large pits, they will lay, huddled together in the coldness of the earth, in the womb of the ground. My fingers sweat as they hold onto the window sill. I rush back from the window and retreat into a small space in the corner. I feel comfort with right-angle walls on both shoulders, knowing that there is only a small space behind me. I look to the door. Cob webs cover the gaps and hinges, unopened and undisturbed. I imagine what dangers lay beyond that barrier of mahogany wood. My heart begins to race again. People, strangers, the virus, the war. My head begins to pound in unison with my heart. I cannot leave this space. I hold my head, gripping my hair. I cannot open the door. I must never open that door! Crawling on my hands and knees like a wild animal, seeking safety in a nearby closet. I get in and close the doors behind me. It’s cramped and tight, and my heartbeat begins to return to normality. I’m in the womb again, safe from the large space of my apartment. |
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January 2025
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