Pier 67

A disconnect. A fire escape.
My new office window looks down into the alley. I could crawl out the window onto the fire escape and enjoy the 10th floor wind whipping through my hair. Climb up and down the building on the old, painted iron ladder.
A bird. A recurring guest who lands on the edge of the gate.
Phone calls. We can hear up and down the rows of cubicles. I hear you. It is hard to avoid listening. It is hard for coworkers to avoid responding, in kind.
Air blows above, in a great circulating puff hidden by the white-tiled drop ceiling. It's always intriguing to me how comforting the din of circulating air is.
The sound of the heat kicking on in your home, the white noise that muffles any echo bouncing off the walls.
Bouncing off the walls. Leaning on closed fists, I stare intently at a screen that offers no solace from the hum. It hums. The street hums below. Looking out onto 2nd Avenue, I see the rain pounding on the rooftops of buildings beneath us. Stop and go. Red. Green. Red. Tires squeal up the hills, skid down the hills.
And then the rain stops. At least the snow has gone. We are free of that burden, free to walk along the Sound, punishing whitecaps.
Dad would always look out at Lake Michigan and say, "that is angry."
Today is an angry sea. It is grey-green, tossing and turning, wretching its guts relentlessly.
My blue and white patterned scarf flaps like a flag against the air that is swept from my lungs, briefly. It is returned with a splash from below the pier.
An alarm. Reminding me not to look down.