Vignettes of the city

When I look out the window, I see Broadway. When I walk out my front door, I walk into Central Park. When I step onto the street, I feel alive and buzzy with possibility. I am a city woman. Or, well. I'd like to be. It's tough to be kind and to live in the city. I smile at people on the sidewalk and they look at me like I've asked them to marry me.

She had wide eyes and wild, frizzy hair. I have seen babies with more teeth. Childish, innocent, batty- she came at me expectantly. Gleefully she eyed my ice cream cone and held out her arms. She reached, I dodged and smiled at her. Sorry, lady. Not today. Part of me wishes I had just given her the ice cream and bought another one.

The rustle of books, the musty smell of paper reaches my nostrils and wraps me in a familiar warmth of contentment. 18 miles of literature, 18 miles of pure joy. It's no secret to me that most of my friends will never have anything new to say to me, their words immortal on the page. In my world of change and transition, their staunch sameness is kind to my psyche. This is my church, and language is my religion.