THE WOUNDED STORY TELLER: An Homage to NYC

Once upon a time, on a night long ago…

Staring through a 2^nd story window

that looks down on 3^rd Ave.,

I watched the cars meander by.

Awash with fear…

awash with exhilaration…

I felt a pull from that unknown force that is

The Story Teller.

So I followed her out

into the shadows of the eve

lit by streetlights of varying shades --

starlight stone, antiqued amber, weary white.

Wandering aimlessly

I heard a whisper inside my mind

telling me tales of

every crack in the sidewalk –

where a tree’s roots were pushing through,

every open doorway –

where someone just like me came home after work

every front step –

where the children played early Saturday morning

every man, woman and child –

who lived and breathed the air of

The Story Teller.

And she took me in as her own.

I remember hearing stories about her

as a child, eyes aglow

at the glorious image of history

unfolding in the present,

the living reality of the “melting pot,”

the burden of being

our greatest dream weaver,

our strongest shoulder,

our Mother-Father, Sister-Brother,

our open door to

who we were, are and will be.

All eyes turn to her.

All ears listen to her.

All hands reach for her.

All souls fall on her.

In spite of the yoke of responsibility,

She continued to knit her yarns,

And we,

we continued to listen

in rapt attention

sitting cross-legged at her feet

like pre-schoolers at story time.

And then one fine day,

            Cerulean heavens, fluffy pillows, arcs of light bouncing off

stone monuments…

…a nanny pushes a stroller with a smiling child…

Rapidly rushing rhythm of pumps, sneakers and loafers…

…a man hurries across a corner while the light still flashes “Don’t Walk...”

Cacophonic chords of honking horns, revved motors, rumbling undergrounds, chattering voices…

…a group of uniformed children gather at the deli corner…

Time

Stood

Still…

And that one fine day

Became a day like no other…

Black-gray smoke ate the cerulean sky, the fluffy pillows, arms of fire pummeled the stone monuments…

…across the country a mother gets a phone call…

Rhythm becomes chaos as pumps lay abandoned amidst ruins of steel and stamina…

…one, then two, then twenty, then a hundred and more of the Story Teller’s Bravest rush back into the impending doom…

Horns stopped mid-voice, motors dead, undergrounds halted, voices silenced…then swelled in a cry to join with our Lady’s…

…and children watch, with unshielded eyes, as the wound sears, singes, burns, melts and deteriorates in an explosive exhale of obliteration…

A collective gasp of unfathomable disbelief and grief that blew in the wind across the land of the free…

So what do we do now?

Toddlers roaming the streets amidst

a day of Armageddon.

Where’s that wizened hand that held mine?

Digging for her children.

Where’s the whisper of her voice?

Raised in an anguished cry

Where’s the shoulder we all leaned on?

Dragging from the pain

of the wound she sustained.

So what do we do now?

Where is the hand…

            to gently squeeze hers.

Where is the whispering voice…

            with words to comfort.

Where is the shoulder…

upon which our wounded Story Teller can cry.

I remember thinking as a child…

Someday…someday, I’ll have the strength to join her.

And I did,

But now I wonder…

Do I have the strength for this?

For if the Story Teller

With her words and wisdom,

love and enlightenment,

strength and courage

Has been the one who invisibly cared for us…

If the Story Teller

through her tales nurtured

our minds,

hearts and

souls…

Who nurtures our Story Teller now that’s she’s been wounded?

…we do.

LEB

11 November, 2001

Revised (Added last line…) 11 September 2015