The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued

Page 101

static. A framed photo of the Empire State Building sits on the mantel, next to a Roosevelt dime in a glass case.

He smiles. Not because he remembers everything, but because the dream remembered for him.

And somewhere, in the architecture of sleep, the elevator still rises.

Elegy for the 86th Floor

The elevator still rises, though the man who held my hand no longer waits at the top.

I was five. He was tall, and smelled of Old Spice and steel lunch pails. The Empire State Building was not a landmark then; it was a promise. A vertical prayer in limestone and light.

We entered the lobby like pilgrims. He pointed to the mural, said, “Built in a year. That’s what people can do when they believe in something.” I didn’t understand belief, but I believed in him.

The elevator climbed. Each floor a heartbeat. Each number a breath. He told me stories as we rose; of war, of work, of the time he saw Frank Sinatra on 34th Street. I listened, not for the stories, but for the pauses between them, where love lived.