Twinkling Apartment Windows

I was born and raised in New Jersey, where the air is clean and one can see the stars in the sky at night (so long as you live in the sticks, and not near the parkway Jersey is fondly known for). If you were to visit my hometown, you could make out any of the constellations you learned as a scout: the big dipper, the orion, and Cassiopeia. All the glory of the milky way.



Now I live in Brooklyn. The sky I see at night is milk washed and clouded with light pollution from the millions of apartments and high rise buildings of the city. The last time one could see stars at night in Brooklyn must have been long ago, when horses where still an acceptable form of transportation.

Tonight as I walked with my husband down the avenues of our neighborhood, I felt how different this new village is. Instead of twinkling stars, we have apartment windows that draw the eye with their light set against the evening darkness. They are the stars of this village.

As foreign as this is to me, these urban window stars, they do impart mystery. As I looked up at the rows of windows, I noticed that each one had its own character. One might have lace draping, which is partially pushed aside to reveal a potted plant. Others are tightly cloaked with curtains, preventing my intruding eyes from getting a peek of what lays inside. If I am lucky, I can see a full view of the living room of a ground floor house: sumptuous furniture, bookcases full of books, and paintings on the wall.

Long ago our ancestors looked up at the night sky and saw stories in the stars. They saw giant bears and dragons, a giant fighting with a bull, and gods with outstretched arms. When I look up at the sky of my urban village, I also see stories. These stories are in the form of the glimpses of lives I see between apartment brick and on the asphalt of my Brooklyn village.