46th Street

Exit my car. Walk across the road to a bridge. Stop. I put my hand to my chest when I see a crowd standing along the rail, a cop guiding traffic, a television crew recording. A woman heads my direction. Has it happened again, I ask. She looks confused. Has someone else jumped? Oh, wow, no, I don't think so, she says. She's with an animal rights group. They want the man who shot Cecil the Lion to face charges. I feel relief. I thought another person jumped, I say, and point to the memorial attached to the rail. She turns her head and sees it for the first time. She looks surprised. The flowers and the candles honor a woman who two weeks ago threw herself over the rail into the morning traffic on the highway below. She looks horrified. I did not know her, I say. Not even her name. The activist woman stands here for a lion killed for a reason I misunderstand. Maybe I would be here for a lion, too, if not for a woman whose action made headlines in the paper, on the television for one day. Maybe I would be here for a lion, too, if not for a woman who jumped off a bridge I crossed moments before. I note the name of the lion support people. They could be my people. They have tucked away fancy doughnuts in a pink box, safe from traffic and random passersby.