The place where Burr shot Hamilton Nov. 17, 2012

I come to the place where Burr shot Hamilton, and I mourn a loss that has nothing to do with American history, Hamilton’s bust poised on the side of a cliff as it is back near the falls where I wandered as a kid, all if it full of strange pathos I feel each time, but not for his demise, but rather for what perished since, this place devoid of factory chimneys that decorated the place of my youth, the remnants of mills my family made their living out of, no black smoke rising here as if once did there, the leaves of trees gone from both places as winter makes it inevitable approach, into a world in which we live, but seldom love, below me here new houses rises like mushrooms from a landscape once filled with steamships and ferries, a transformation of our souls as time erases what once was and replaces it with what is, heartbreak too personal to leave too indelible an imprint here, though I feel as shot through the chest as Hamilton must have felt, a lost soul, strolling places of now ancient history, seeing her face where Hamilton’s is, as if we cannot escape tragedy no matter how far we travel or how much time has passed.

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