My cousin Luna sleeps on a Super 8 motel bed in Jersey City, in a room that overlooks the Holland Tunnel toll plaza, next to a Home Depot that makes me sad because I can’t imagine anyone in this place having a home for which they might ever need a hammer or some drywall or satin-finish paint. But there it sits, massively waiting, just in case. New York City is just eight dollars and ten minutes away.
On nights when she doesn’t call, I picture Luna sleeping on beds like this—beds with sticky sheets, beds with scratchy polyester quilts and pillows that are yellow at the corners, beds that squeak and sing her to sleep. Mattresses that press her cheeks into lopsided sleep smiles. Air conditioners that make it rain dust all over her glittery body.
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