Joe’s mother is standing near him looking at a small scroll in a garden he cannot remember. It is a shrine. They are in Japan. Her face is still very young and he feels pulled toward her. She finishes with the scroll, an omikuji he has bought, and hands it to him, “Dai kichi, Josefu. Very good luck.” He sees her so happy and then gingerly takes the scroll to keep from her young and unwrinkled hand. He reaches out for her and they begin to walk out onto the Brooklyn Bridge. “Look, mama, a Torii!” He cannot see her frown—she never shows him disapproval—but he can feel it in her breezy voice. “No, Josefu. Not a Torii. Shrines only for spirits of natural things.” He senses a fury But the bridge is so magnificent and looming over them like an entrance, he is not sure she is correct. Joe thinks of all the hands that have touched it—all of the thousands of hands. He turns to look at his mother, to tell her how beautiful he thinks the bridge is, and as he does he is standing at the base of the eastern side of the Brooklyn Bridge. There is no one around except for a woman in the distance. She is dressed in a yellow dress and seems to shine against the overcast sky and darkened river.*

The street frames the bridge and yet is dwarfed by it. The buildings on either side seem to stand at attention, lined up, until they open to the water and reveal it. There is a strong gust from behind Joe and he stands and stares for a moment before turning to go.

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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