We'll Leave Now, So That This Moment

Brooklyn Was A Dream. All The Things That Happened There Just Couldn't Happen. It Was All Dream Stuff. Or Was It All Real And True And Was It That She, Francie, Was The Dreamer?

Oh, Magic Hour, When A Child First Knows She Can Read Printed Words.

Someday You'll Remember What I Said And You'll Thank Me For It." Francie Wished Adults Would Stop Telling Her That. Already The Load Of Thanks In The Future Was Weighing Her Down. She Figured She'd Have To Spend The Best Years Of Her Womanhood Hunting Up People To Tell Them That They Were Right And To Thank Them.

I Wrote About People Who Liked Fake Fireplaces In Their Parlor, Who Thought A Brass Horse With A Clock Embedded In Its Flank Was Wonderful.

No Matter Where Its Seed Fell, It Made A Tree Which Struggled To Reach The Sky. It Grew In Boarded-up Lots And Out Of Neglected Rubbish Heaps, And It Was The Only Tree That Grew Out Of Cement. It Grew Lushly, But Only In The Tenements Districts.... That Was The Kind Of Tree It Was. It Liked Poor People.