Moved

About three blocks from my office, a new hotel is under construction. Ten stories of unsightly scaffolding surrounds a cold, steel skeleton merged with half-finished concrete walls. There are open spaces for windows, but no glass yet in place. Buildings under construction are no rare sight in Manhattan, but I had never taken any notice of this particular building until it made headlines.

One chilly day in March, the local news media erupted with a story about a construction worker on the project—28-year-old Anthony Paino—who fell from the top floor to his death when a flimsy piece of plywood gave way under his feet. Early reports said it was his first day on the job.

Reading about Anthony and his fiancée (they had just bought a house and planned to be married in July) sent a wave of sadness through me that stuck around for a day or two, then drifted out of my mind to make room for the daily onslaught of new worries and factoids to settle in.

That is, until about two weeks later, when I found myself walking directly past the partially-constructed building. The sidewalk along what will likely be the entrance to the hotel is fully enclosed with scaffolding and, as I crossed the street to walk under it, I wondered if I would see any tribute to Anthony. A flower, perhaps? A message written in magic marker on a wooden board?

I walked the entire length of the building and was disheartened to see no such message. No sign memorializing Anthony or the spot where he died. No marker. No indication that a man's life had ended there. I was shocked and disappointed. How could people be so heartless? How could his co-workers not have paid tribute to him in some way? Or his family or friends, for that matter.

I continued walking, feeling disillusioned with people and saddened that Anthony’s death seemed to go unnoticed and uncommemorated at this, the site of his death.

Then, I turned a corner.

Before my eyes, a giant wall of flowers six feet high and 10 feet wide. Posters. Signs. Cards. Candles. More flowers. “We love you, Anthony” read one. “We’ll miss you!” read another. “Rest in peace” read so many—written in black, red, blue, purple. Some were written by people who knew him—co-workers, friends, family. What moved me most were those tributes written by people who’d never met him but had nonetheless felt saddened by his death.

My heart sank at the sight of the soaring memorial, but, as I walked away, a wave of hope and optimism took hold. Deep down, the majority of people are good-hearted, compassionate souls and I’ve always tried to remember that when negative thoughts pervade my otherwise-positive spirit.

There is immeasurable love and kindness out there. You just have to look for it.

Posted by ayelet at April 28, 2009 04:38 PM