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To Michael Estabrook's previous piece
the Staten Island Ferry
Ferry boat throbbing like a tourniquetted thigh, bumping heavily into its dock like a gun being jammed into an old worn out holster, guided in by swollen leaning pilings, pushed in by the pressure of time and waves, docked finally, seating itself securely, permitting transfer of passengers and cars onto safe dry land. Long before I was born my Great Aunt Lorna jumped off the Staten Island Ferry, dropped like an odd rock down straight down into the cold dark murky waters. But she was rescued, saved (went on to a long and happy life, I am told, married a circus performer, having something to do with horses, apparently). Her sister (my Grandmother) wasnít saved though (self-asphyxiation in her motherís kitchen) nor was her brother who cut his wrists open in a bathtub of hot water and bled to death even though he was a dandy. One out of three isnít too bad, I guess you could say.