My Street

In theory, my street- the street where I live- should comprise eighteen blocks; in fact, there are only six or seven, depending from which side one counts. Hardly a long street by New York City standards, especially considering that it is, at least nominally, an avenue. Nonetheless, this slight, two-lane artery of urban life strings together at least four or five aspects so different that a casual twenty-five minute walk from one end to the other can feel like a day of unmarked, and possibly illegal, border crossings. It begins at the base of a precipitous rocky hillside traced by a looping road forever jammed with too many cars going in too many directions at speeds much too fast for such a small intersection- that is, when the cars are moving at all.

At its southern end, the avenue stretches up a small hill no steeper than the arch of a grown cat’s back and then flattens out entirely, shifting what little variety it encompasses from a lazy vertical climb to a horizontal meandering, like someone who has fallen asleep with their legs dangling over the side of the bed: feet flopping toward the floor, hips sunk flat, the upper torso- shoulders, arms and head- rotated right, to the west. In the short, slim midsection that would be the sleeper’s waist, the buildings that line the lower stretch suddenly disappear, replaced by two parks squeezing together, one from each side of the narrow avenue-in-name-only. The sleeper’s arms akimbo describe a vast oval of lawn and track, edged by a distant rising thicket of elm, oak and pine. Behind the sleeper, on the eastern bank of the avenue, a gaggle of trees swoops down a sheer incline and hovers over the tilting curb, like a gang of schoolchildren huddled impatiently, waiting to cross the street and charge onto the playing fields on the other side.

At this point the avenue is the official line of demarcation between two different parks and the shrubs and trees, even the animals, seem to respect the legal limit and opposite purpose of each side. Once the leaves fall and the grass loses its color, the western field disappears into an unrecognizable absence, becoming only the distance toward the far-away hill, an upward rumble of crusty russet lace and jumbled sticks. The gray horizon signals through to the true crest of the hillside itself, as if arguing against the questionable feint and simplistic obviousness of the upper edgeline of bare treetops.

The narrow ridge above the east side of the avenue cascades in an assortment of tossed timbers, some huge and towering, stuck haphazardly into the muddy slope- it is hardly believable that they will leaf again next year. These trees have been pruned, if at all, by the random effects of lightning; neglect has allowed them to form into shapes that defy gravity and decorum, like halting scribbles drawn by children who do not yet know about balance and support. Fallen branches, an abandoned litter of thick-sliced trunks and erosion around the massive knots of long-exposed roots all create homes and hideouts for the remaining wildlife: a few robins and starlings, pigeons, of course, and the many gray and black squirrels who never give up their optimism that, today, I may have remembered to bring along something for them to eat or bury.

Farther up, past the respite of park and the last signal light, the avenue runs a final course, short and straight, through a small cluster of chunky apartment houses shouldered together like a double row of spectators at the finish line- an indistinguishable, thin cross-street where the avenue simply and quietly ends without expectation. So far past the moment of competition themselves, these buildings are all old, yet determined and earnest; some stately, mostly tired from patiently waiting the long intervals between intermittent opportunities to show off their prized treasure to the occasional passersby who might take notice.

Don’t you see? They are too polite to point; besides, they have no hands or arms, no fingers to force anything. It is here, right here between us. Look, and look again. Suddenly the rough brick buildings are the knit-work of a dark open collar, the emptiness at the end of the street is a pale throat leading up to the radiant face of pure, endless, changeable sky.