Across the road, by the side of a pond, stands a grumpy-looking wood stork.
He is hunched into the unseasonable January chill. His large pink feet are hidden (but I know they are there). I feel drawn to him, his scary prehistoric beak, his stoic stillness.
He stands there, not quite waiting. He's got an atttude problem. Is that his weakness or his strength?
He is a teenage boy whose cell phone has just been confiscated by his English teacher.
He is a guy whose girlfriend has just dumped him outside a dive bar
on the Lower East Side at 3 a.m.
He is me, waiting for something Big to happen. (At my age!) Waiting for the bus,
in a new city, going to a new job, trying on a new life.
Sorry, Emily D, but Hope is not a small feathered bird, it is a huge wood stork with skinny pink feet, suddenly spreading its wings and scaring the fish right out of the water.
I board the bus and leave fear behind.