Letters

It was during the early stages of construction. Bulldozers rumbled on top of rubble. Cranes raised unearthed objects. Loud, busy noises infused rhythm into gritty air.

I looked out of my manager’s window. Beyond her grave expression, I saw the pit.

The home of fine twins that towered over New York City, rendered down to two uninhabitable holes in the ground. I was spellbound by them.

They glared at me. Those mammoth, almond eyes. They sat sideways across a face that lacked other features. Also among the missing were the irises and lids. Shades pulled shut broke the vacant gaze.

I fixated on the gruesome site. Until the thundering of heavy equipment ceased, the beeping and roaring dimmed. That’s when the work zone morphed into a park.

A tranquil spot. Except for those hollow, haunted eyes. They were disguised as two reflecting pools. Within them, 2,983 titanic tears plunged into black caverns. Water ebbed into the chambers of the broken-hearted. In an endless reenactment, at a place where life ended and love drowned.

Diane S. Morelli

Hampton Bays