I grew up on cliffs. The Palisades, to be specific, overlooking the Hudson River on the New Jersey side. Metaphorically, they were cliffs to jump off of. Hours spent on those cliffs, looking down, looking across the river at the lights of the Bronx, watching lights rise into the sky from LaGuardia and Kennedy Airports in the distance.
And always imagining how things could change. Would change. Maybe a fence would be built along the edge of the cliffs. Maybe the area would be developed, making it an inappropriate place to jump from. Maybe it would become more traveled by pedestrians. Maybe someone would come and lead me off the cliffs.
Alas, none of that happened. Instead, the cliffs have been cleared and there's a rock out-cropping that is perfect as a jump off point. And there's a brass band playing! And a podium where people are speaking, and stands for spectators waiting in anticipation, cameras trained on me. And I'm wearing a cape!
The cliffs are much higher than I remember. And the sky is bigger and bluer than I've ever seen it. It's a lovely, warm Summer day, the kind I love. I put my feet in the blocks for the running jump, and somehow I get the feeling I won't be falling downwards off the cliffs. Not down, down, down, splat, but up into the big blue. How I love panoramic views.
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