Walking out of my building yesterday, I ran into the older woman who lives downstairs. Without warning she grabbed my hand. Even fully vaccinated, I’m still shocked when someone touches me these days and her grasp carried an extra frisson. So did her words: My husband died last night.
She said it in English, though she usually speaks in Sicilian. For two decades I lived above those two, and their constant battles–screams, tears, explosions—always took place in their mother tongue.
In the early years he would assault me in the corridor–boobs, ass, whatever he could grab as I scooted by their door. Growing up how I did, I was accustomed to dirty old men, but he was over the top. The landlord didn’t do much about it, just “talked to him man to man.”
These old Italians, he said, waving his hand like an old Italian. Whatever he said worked for a while, then my neighbor began to knock on my door whenever his wife was at work. In all the years I knew him, he never worked and she always did. Vaffanculo, I’d hiss until he’d creep back downstairs again, footsteps soft but sure.
For a while there also was a brothel on the second floor. Not tech-savvy sex workers with master degrees in gender studies, but dead-eyed girls who sucked off johns in the vestibule and pulled knives when you complained. You could ask why I didn’t move. I’d answer the apartment was rent-stabilized, and if you don’t get that, you don’t get living in NYC when you weren’t wealthy.
Eventually the crack whores were replaced by hipsters with jobs I didn’t entirely understand, and the vials and small baggies littering the hallway were replaced by a small gym and laundry room. People complain about gentrification, but it has its advantages. So does aging out of being prey. My downstairs neighbor began to bother the blond millennial on the first floor instead, and that generation doesn’t mess.
When the girl called the cops, they put him in lockup where he had a mild stroke. After that he was a tamed man, though the fights never let up. I’d hear them through the floorboards—her anguished squawks rising and falling; his deep vibrato. I didn’t mind their soap operettas, which validated my decision not to marry, but I did mind the baleful glances he shot at me. Head down, he’d flatten his body dramatically against walls whenever he saw me or any other female in the building. Predators play victim better than anybody.
I wasn’t surprised to learn of his death. A few weeks before I’d been awakened at 4 am by red lights pouring into my front room, and through the window I saw his body–frail, shrunken, intubated–being shoved unceremoniously into an ambulance. I may never see him again, I’d thought. Maybe it’s just the sustained devastation of the last year, but I’d felt a profound lack of sentiment. Something was shifting that lived below emotions–the Earth itself, hurtling forward on its axis.
Their apartment was quiet after that, but I didn’t check on them. The only time I’d gone down there was when he’d begun swiping my deliveries a few years before. He old, she’d said as she handed over the unopened packages.
Then shut the door in my face.
It’s so strange when someone you’ve known a long time but didn’t like passes over. He must have had good qualities, but I saw him every day and never cared for him nor his wife, defined by her marital boulder. That man, she said once after yelling at me for calling the LL. Like he was both of our burden.
Devout even by the standards of our neighborhood elders, she was known as a “black stocking”–someone who attended Catholic mass every day. “It don’t make her happier,” said Mikey, my seventysomething pal from the coffee shop. “It don’t make him faithful,” said Paulie, my other seventysomething pal from the coffee shop. I sighed. “It makes her faithful.”
She did feed him beautifully. I always envied the aromas drifting from their apartment at mealtimes: garlic, tomato, basil. She grew it on the fire escape.
Now he’s gone and when I looked into her eyes she seemed to be registering this loss as if tonguing the gap left by a pulled infected tooth. Anxious and angry no matter what. I felt compassion for her if not affection. I feel this way so often. O humans.
Clear out your schedule—at least emotionally—because today’s full moon in Scorpio promises turbulence galore. T-squaring taskmaster Saturn and rebel Uranus, this “pink moon” spills secrets and pokes sore spots so take care of your jangled nerves with ginger tea, broth, salt baths—and deep heart-to-hearts. The next 24 hours aren’t about smooth sailing so much as getting to the root of things so try revealing at least one card you’ve been keeping your close to your chest. This is a time to get real about your vulnerabilities or the Universe may get real on your behalf. The good news? More nourishing intimacy lives on the other side of this divide.
To chart optimal paths and clear obstacles, book a reading for yourself or a loved one. Image: Milton Avery.
It is spring, the world is blooming, and instinctually we wish to bloom as well. While this can feel inspiring, it also can be triggering. Because one of the hardest lessons of life is that we can’t always push our way through. No matter how smart, gifted, and well-intended we are—no matter how much we charm, chant, meditate, pray, make affirmations, visualize, flow-chart, invest, work,nand white-knuckle it—sometimes things just don’t go our way.
In my intuition practice I have observed that the Universe will put obstacle after obstacle in our path until we not only learn a new lesson but a new way to learn. Central to this learning is the acceptance that we are creating our lives with something else. When we learn how to be present and open to each moment even when we wish it were different, then we align with this divine consciousness. It is in this alignment that we are always supported and always grow.
Flowers don’t bloom from their will alone and neither do we. That’s what makes it all so hard–and so rhapsodically mud-luscious.
To chart optimal paths, release roadblocks, and activate your own intuition, book a reading for yourself or a loved one. Image: Shara Hughes.