Wednesday, July 18, 2012
An Ache in My Heart the Size of a Meatball Sub
I left Brooklyn this morning with a water bottle full of New York water and half a meatball sub in my bag (I told Tyson I'd leave it for him in the fridge, but he and I both know he wasn't going to go over and get it, and I'll be darned if I"ll see a good meatball sub go to waste . . . sorry Tyson).
I said my goodbyes yesterday, soft goodbyes, as I call them, which means they're more like, see you laters. Like, later in real life, or on facebook, or I'll text you, etc. All except one. My landlord, Jerry. He is also our next door neighbor, pasta-maker and bringer-over, and dear, dear friend. To all my Brooklyn friends--don't take this personally--but I miss him the most. He pops his head out the door when he hears us on the stairs, to say hello and to get a smile from Edie. He waves down from his window when he sees us walking back to the building. He knows all the old-timers in the neighborhood, he was married in the church on the corner, he has photographs of 4th Ave from 60 years ago, and we love him so much.
Kimmy is moving in, and I know she'll take good care of him, but who will take care of us?
I wonder if all my sadness about missing Brooklyn is wrapped up in missing Jerry. My dear friends, who I know I'll see again, I miss, but, I know I'll see them again. In Brooklyn, in California, in Utah, wherever. But there is no Brooklyn without Jerry, no Jerry without Brooklyn.
Between Edie and me, all the New York water is gone. The meatball sub is in the refrigerator, but I doubt that even that can full this hollowness.