New Yorker

I am a New Yorker. I feel one with the people of every tribe and nation around me in the Long Island City courthouse. I’m a New Yorker in this little cafe, eating a Greek salad with lots of chickpeas while totally ignoring the attorney beside me, the one in whose courtroom I sit as they select a jury.

The ever so familiar 7 train pulls into the Court Square Station near here. I rode it to arrive at the courthouse this morning. I rode smashed and crushed while totally ignoring the people in my personal space. New Yorkers know how to ignore.

When I’d finished lunch, I stepped through the slush back to the courthouse. We had our first snowfall this morning. It would have been a good day to hole up in our apartment with a book.

I ended up in a court room with the same woman I sat by in Central Jury. We seemed destined to sit together as we found ourselves side by side for a second time. I glanced at her info and pointed out to her that we’re the same age. After taking a phone call, she confided in me that her son is in the emergency room. She was so worried. I told her I would pray. Just now, as I walked by, she said, “He’s much better,” the burden lifted from her countenance.

“Thank God,” I replied.

Ignoring. Caring. Riding trains. Walking city streets. I’m a New Yorker.

More than this, I’m a child of God; therefore, I cannot serve on a jury. Say a prayer for me. I will for you. Berniece