Exile On Staten Island.

I am eighty-two.

My hair is raven black; Just like the day, I was born. However, I have shrunken, my bones audible with each movement.

My world, too, has shrunken. I must mention that everyone I've loved is dead.

A fact of many an eighty-two-year-old.

I have been asked if I have ever experienced survivor's guilt.

The answer is a resounding no.

How could I?

After all, I am not a survivor. I am merely waiting my turn.

We will all die, and most of us will die alone.

My thoughts are interrupted by the brakes of the city bus. I slowly grab my plastic bags and walk down the bus’ steps into the mild, early fall air.

I was a day away from my exile.

As I walked down the block, my eyes took in the Romanesque Revival architecture of my Brooklyn neighborhood. I would mourn the loss of this place, where I was born.

I sighed deeply as I inhaled the familiar, pungent stench of souring Ginko tree fruits lining the sidewalk.

I entered my apartment, located on the ground floor of a one-hundred-year-old brownstone, and put my shopping away.

I unpacked the takeout New American food I’d picked up on my way home from the social security office and began to eat.

My proverbial last supper in this place.

I thought I would die here, peacefully in my sleep on a banal spring morning, but it was not to be so.

This building would soon be demolished, replaced by some glossy, glassy, bird-killing skyscraper, and I would be living in exile.

After notice of the impending loss of my home, I had searched high and low to find a new place within my budget. However, my search had proved fruitless.

Brooklyn, New York had had its fill of me. It seemed my verdict had been handed down. I was found guilty of no longer being worthy of my home. Now my fate was sealed, and I was to be cast out.

I looked at my partially packed boxes stacked against the brick walls with a sense of impending doom and longing.

Finding no place in Brooklyn, I had expanded my search to unfamiliar territory and landed on a small house in Staten Island.

The City of New York sponsored the house through its Homes for seniors initiative.

Despite being born and raised in New York City, I had never before ventured to Staten Island, and now, I would die there.

I finished my meal, cleaned up, and showered in the old clawfoot tub for the last time.

I settled into my bed and sighed again as my memories lulled me to sleep, wrapping around me like a well-loved but itchy blanket.

When I awoke the following day and stepped outside, I was met with wet misty touches.

The gentle autumn rain was resplendent.

Perhaps Brooklyn was mourning my departure and unjust sentence after all.

A small moving truck arrived at 9 am on the dot, and I watched the men I hired load my belongings on the truck.

I watched as the truck drove away, then put the keys to my home in the refrigerator.

I slowly walked away without looking back for fear that I wouldn’t be able to leave.

I didn't want to crumble, just as my home, which was destined for demolition.

I waited for the bus to take me in the opposite direction from yesterday… away.

The familiar smell of the Ginko fruits followed me, though today, the rain had hastened its rotting.

Were there Ginko trees on Staten Island?

I’d find out sooner rather than later.

At the final bus stop, I slowly meandered through the well-worn ferry terminal to board the Staten Island ferry, which was already docking.

The gate’s two large sliding doors noisily opened at the hands of a weathered-looking ferry worker.

The ferry was revealed.

The orange color of the boat reminded me of a prison jumpsuit.

I made my way over a short bridge to the top deck then reluctantly slipped into a seat at the front of the boat.

The boast horn blasted as it set out into the NYC harbor.

The horn sounded to me like an executioner’s introduction.

Perhaps I was pessimistic, and the sound was heralding a new start. Or maybe it was both.

The ferry pulled away at its top sped of 15 knots or 17 mph.

It felt slower than a snail's pace.

The ride was smooth and almost meditative save for the whirr of helicopter blades flying overhead to and fro from time to time.

The statue of liberty came into view, but she seemed occupied with other things.

The boat pulled into the Staten Island side of the docks awkwardly. The orange ferry drove what seemed purposely straight into a wall of wooden planks jarring the crowds gathering at the front to disembark.

As I watched the other passengers, some stumbled, but others seemed to brace themselves, veterans, who expected the unpleasant push perhaps.

After getting off the boat and finding the correct bus route, I found myself face to face with the new place. The house was a small two-bedroom new construction.

I was not too fond of the LED lights, but the new appliances would serve me well.

I walked down the hallway and into the backyard.

A giant red Japanese maple tree greeted me.

I gasped at its stoic beauty.

The fiery red leaves danced seductively in the soft wind. Shards of sunlight pierced the spaces between the pointed tips of the leaves.

This would be my resting place.

The maple tree swayed faster in agreeance.

Back in Brooklyn, I rarely noticed maple trees. My block was all pungent Ginko trees.

Trees that represented resilience, health, and longevity.

However I now felt a kinship with this Japanese maple. A tree that represents beauty, rest, peace and the start of fall.

Fall, the season of the exile. The season of rest and death. The season of leaving.

I sat beneath it’s blood red shade and let my fingers caress the cool soil.

I felt peace settle down over me.

I would bloom and color the world in the fall.

This is eighty two.