Once neighbors in Williamsburg

When I lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I had a loft space on the top floor of a white concrete warehouse building. The view of the Manhattan skyline was spectacular; my roommate and I could see the weather changing, coming in from Jersey--so that even though we were in the city, it felt like we were in the wilderness somewhere. Someplace where one's relationship to sun and rain and storms was far more intimate than might be expected for urban life. For the first six years or so, we didn't have heat during non-business hours. 

The building was filled with different kind of factories: on one floor, the Hasidic guys made belts; one day, they loaded too much leather into the freight elevator and broke it. On another floor, different guys made picture frames. Puerto Ricans sorted used clothing and shipped out bales from the basement and ground floor. Across the street, Chinese guys ran a kitchen fabricating company, making stainless steel tables and sinks and stoves. I never let on that I understood what they were saying, even if it wasn't that interesting.

During my last year in Williamsburg, I became friends with a woman who was in treatment for ovarian cancer. She had survived breast cancer about six years previously. I knew her from the meditation center in the city where we both volunteered. When I found out she only lived ten blocks from me or so, I figured I could help out. I picked up her lemon-lime Gatorade, bottled water, and some cole slaw from the deli at the supermarket. Her ability to eat was limited on chemo. I did her laundry and helped change her sheets. I read to her from my novel. When she got stronger, we talked. About art, books, her family. Mine. I moved to Queens, but we stayed in touch, mostly by phone.

She left a message the other day. She's back in the hospital, perhaps with brain cancer. They did a biopsy on Labor Day, removing a section of her skull and taking a sample of brain tissue; there is a mass 4 cm in size in the lower left portion, an unwelcome intruder whatever its exact composition. The doctors are going to begin radiation treatment anyway, before the test results are finalized. When I spoke to her on the phone today, she seemed surprised that the doctors were going to release her any day now. But an email exchange with a mutual friend indicated something different, about a long stay in "acute rehab," which is kind of funny and ironic for a recovering alcoholic. She complains about Williamsburg a lot--its annoying hipster quality, the faux hardships of the privileged young. But I wonder what she's thinking about Williamsburg now that she's not there. The quality of place changes when we're away, and even more so if we can't go back.