I found myself in Turtle Bay, a part of Manhattan from 43rd to 53rd Streets, stretching from Lexington to the East River.
It’s mostly known for the long time home of the late Katharine Hepburn, but for me it has a different significance.
The writer, Kurt Vonnegut, also lived there.
Worshiping at his honorable altar, wanting so much to write like him, never being afraid of what others think, proving, one’s truth is often poignant and always very personal.
I decided, being in the neighborhood, to make a pilgrimage to 228 East 48th Street.
I was surprised at how rundown the townhouse was, not knowing if his wife and daughter still lived there, but it didn’t stop me from gazing up to the 4th floor where he wrote many of the books I so treasure.
He was walking down his front steps with Flour, his beloved dog, he was rarely without, when he became tangled in Flour’s leash, causing him to fall.
Never regaining consciousness, he died from a traumatic brain injury on April 11th, 2007 at the age of 84.
Staring at those steps I wanted to hug, involuntary tears ran down my cheeks.
It was then, I swear, a warmth swept over me feeling a familiar hand on my shoulder, specially expressed from the ether.
“And Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt.
― And so it goes.” K.V. Slaughterhouse-Five.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (1922-2007)