Beneath the steel beams of the overhead train, I observe the faint orange of a sunrise crisscrossed by black electrical wires. In the City That Never Sleeps, I hear the rumble of trains, Muslim prayers, horns honking, and, when I listen closely, birdsong. The sari-dressed woman on a bench in the park-like median beside me leans over to say that it’s 22 minutes until the next bus. I reply, “I know.” I decide to wait and not spend the money on Uber. However, just then a bus rounds the corner onto Queens Boulevard, and we both cross the street and board it for a ride to Roosevelt Island.
That’s as far as I got this morning. Now it’s the western sky that is tinted with the sunset. Market was good. Ordinary. Normal. It felt routine to go out early this morning to commute, and to work at market. (Meanwhile, Laurence had a dentist appointment, and he walked in Forest Park.)
Why was I thinking these thoughts? Unexpectedly this last week, I spent several days in Kansas. I flew out for the funeral of Jim Kehn at Ulysses. His wife, Anita, is my cousin. I’m glad I went. I don’t think I’ll ever forget standing in the warm sunshine (70 degrees, no wind) at the cemetery, seeing the brilliant yellows and reds of the casket bouquet, and hearing the choir sing, “Somewhere in the skies . . .” Truly, I was lifted to Heaven. I’m glad for Jim’s testimony. I saw so many friends and relatives. I could spend time with my parents.
But then the plane landed at LGA, and I was home where life is normal.
Berniece
An Ordinary Life 