Brooklyn Artists Gym

I got off work early, which was fine since the library was desolately empty. Emily's sister had been working on an art retrospective for their father at a gallery in the city to coincide with his birthday. All of the publicity read that there was going to be a meet and greet with the artist, but he was deteriorating so rapidly that he no longer even passed through the threshold of his apartment to sit in the sun. His mind could not even retain the morning's sunrise and no one knew how many more he would get. A trip to Brooklyn would be immediately fatal and beyond ridiculous.

Rain doesn't actually melt witches. Thunder does.

Half an hour late owing to traffic and construction, we arrived at Emily's mother's home in time to pick up her sister Lauren and her husband Chris. Her mother was a different story. She was visiting Stuart seven miles away. When we went to pick her up at Stuart's apartment, none of us entered. We only transferred to Judy's SUV. It was likely for the best given his condition, but it felt concertedly strange to be so close and yet so far. I guessed that he was in no position to receive visitors who were not immediate family or hospice workers.

On the way to the gallery, Emily marveled that I was so impressed by The Statue of Liberty. When I told her this was because I was seeing it for the first time, though at a distance of several miles, she pronounced herself remiss and promised she would take me there soon. It was her assumption that all school children are taken to Ellis Island before passing to middle school.

We met Emily's best friend Kelly at a French restaurant that wasn't worth the nationality. Emily and Kelly see one another infrequently, only a few times each year owing to the thousands of miles between them, though they still consider the other a best friend. I am not one to talk, as I give the title to people I have not seen in much longer who have less of an excuse. Emily says that, the moment they are in one another's company, it is as though they never left. Having lived together through college, the familiarity is that of sisters.

Brooklyn Artists Gym

Emily's mother and actual sister left for the gallery before dessert for fear of missing any of the show, leaving Chris, Kelly, Emily and me to find our own way to the gallery. But, as NYC streets are all alphanumerically organized, I couldn't imagine we would have a very hard time of it.

We saw the rain beating down in front of us, but we were still getting sunny sprinkles. There is ethereality to walking into the pouring rain from relative sunshine. It gently grates against instinct, which orders us away from downpours. Emily and Kelly tried to hide under Kelly's tiny umbrella and Chris, being a tall sort, caught the rain before it could get to us. I just walked, chilled but enjoying the sensation of knowing that this was the stuff of which memories are made. Years from now, I will remember that rain and there is holiness in that. Emily told me to stop being brave and stupid and get under the umbrella with her, but it barely contained both of their heads. If I joined them, one of them would get wet.

We ducked under an overhang at the next corner. The men inside the building, a combination Hispanic church and repair shop, smiled and waved at the shivering wet gringos on their doorstep. When the thunder crashed--which it did often--Emily jumped and clung to me. Lightning poses no problem for her, in it just a lethal dose of electricity shot at the ground fairly randomly. Thunder, however, is a very loud noise and is instinctively feared. Tell me about Intelligent Design again?

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