It was a sunny day in New York City when I realized that my sky was being stolen.
The first sign of trouble was the crane. Its thin finger appeared over the old brick building outside my window, scratching at the sliver of sky I could just make out above the rooftops. My sky. In a city where you can sprain your neck searching for sky, I relished this shard of blue, so tiny that I could cover it with my thumb.
I consoled myself about the crane with the flimsy logic I once used after discovering a bedbug: It'll go away! It didn't.
When the metal skeleton of a skyscraper materialized beneath the crane, I told myself that the new building would top out soon. It couldn't possibly get much taller.
But the skeleton kept stretching. It rose above the brick building, then over the windows of neighboring apartments, walling off precious blue behind it. It was so tall, so thin, I began to doubt that the cross-hatching of metal beams could actually be a building.
This story is from the January - February 2023 edition of The Atlantic.
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This story is from the January - February 2023 edition of The Atlantic.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 8,500+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
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