Cityscape

When my uncle came to town for the first time since entering our closely knit and widely spread family,  for my aunt's baby shower, he was surprised at three things: Number one. I was suddenly 5' 3'', a shocking revelation. I could feel him make a conscious choice, reluctantly, that from now on, he had to tilt his head down a little less and accept that I was catching up to him. Number two. Jewish families are weird. This was his first non-holiday interaction closely with the branches of his wife's family tree, and more than once, in a car or on the street, he said, "Are you sure?" to which we responded with a vigorous nod. Southern hospitality is instinctual, but Jewish advice is ironwill. Number three. My room had an incredible view of the entire skyline, left to right, up to down, with an indirect view of the bleeding sunsets. He walked in. It had enough floor space to fit a classroom art table, plus my bed, propped up against the window. I had never looked on it as anything more than a disappointment, a 4 foot subway car I had to crane my head to get into. But uncle W? "WOW!" he exclaimed. "Now this is city living! Almost nicer than a big house! I think I'd rather live here!" I looked around with his eyes. The blue paint on the walls was quaint. The cityscape out the window was amazing. I loved the city, and yearned for a bigger window, a larger zoom on my camera, and a balcony to walk out onto and scream whenever I needed to. I could settle for city. I could rely on city. I could be a part of the city, like a bead on a necklace: You could get me off, but not without removing everything in sight and splitting open the threads.