The View from the Passenger's Seat

            In the tunnel, the tile surrounds you. Headlights bounce of the grimy walls, creating a sickly yellow color akin to that of an underground parking lot. The farther you get in, the more apart from the real world you become. You are removed, in the futuristic dream of a mid-century city planner. Then gradually, light appears, so far away that it might just be a mirage. The tunnel is suffocating, dank and gross, but then suddenly you have arrived. The city opens up in front of you. Against the inky black and navy of the sky, lights shine. The river and the sky and the concrete are one blackness; the backdrop to thousands of pinpricks of shining yellow.

            The road winds and twists around the city, following the river. Up close, the lights separate into a million different sources. They are the fluorescence of office buildings, the faint white of stars, the blinding flashes of stadiums, and the red-orange of the steel mills. Few still run, but where they do the light is striking. It is a constant presence. They relentlessly run, never stopping, but it is at night when they come alive. The sparks fly, and the glowing molten steel flows.

            Up, away from the river, the road winds. The lights fade and the buildings become dark. They rot from abuse, vacancy and abandonment. The windows are boarded up, and metal bars keep life out. But somehow, that this was once a vibrant town, is still evident. On the corner is a majestic bank, whose marble walls and grand doors once held the center of this community. But now the doors are closed and the lights are off. On street corners and in doorways people smoke and talk and wait. What they are waiting for I will never know. The only building still open is a lonely bar, with windows so caked in years of decay that light barely reaches the outside. Green and red neon struggle past the windows and onto the sidewalk. The sign no longer hangs straight, and the letters are so dark they are illegible.

             Finally, we round the corner and travel up, winding around trees and guardrails until we have left the urban decay. The car stops and turns into a neighborhood like any other, with small brick homes and identical white trim, but yet it is different than any other neighborhood. It is a place I have come to a million times, and it has never changed. As we pull into my grandmother’s driveway light shines from the familiar silhouette of the front window. But this light glows at a different frequency from the rest. It does not illuminate the sadness of a city in disrepair or the monotony of the winding road; this light brings warmth. It is a constant, shining with the light of memories, and family, and home.