One girl stood on the street corner and played the guitar until her fingers ached with the same rhythm of her heart.
A elderly man stood on the street corner next to her, smoking. He was Manhattan-born, Manhattan-grown, and he knew he’d be Manhattan-buried.
Another man, seated on a bench, buried his face in his own grief, while his companion sat beside him absolutely silent.
Sitting in a cafe alone, a girl watched a group of kids make a racket jump roping on the street.
Over at a studio down the street, a painter put the finishing touches on his masterpiece while the audience clapped as they know they should.
One boy sat at the street corner waiting for his love, waiting and trying not to think that perhaps she wouldn’t come.
A college student studied in a busy coffee shop, while his sister sketched and scribbled on his napkin.
The small toddler took her first steps on those streets while her mother rejoiced. Down the street, a daughter wept outside a hospital after watching her mother take her last.
I stood in the city that night and realized,
We’re all feeling different happiness and feeling different grief. We all have our own evolving dreams tucked inside our brains, we all have different griefs and joys, and we all have different experiences and opportunities. Yet there we were: all different but all on one city street together, all humans with beating hearts. And in that that night our stories eclipsed in a silent way as we breathed the same city air. Stories do that: eclipse to write new stories. If we are stars, out stories are constellations.