One day, the crew on the Williamsburg Bridge came in the morning to see that their crane had been painted. On it was a monster whose dark eyes were hooded over with a shelf of a brow and devil horns. The eyes had a spot of glowing red in them, the color of a candy apple. Whoever had painted the crane had made their way all the way up the arm of it, their hand never wavering, even at the top where they drew a giant fist. Suddenly, the crane looked like it was destroying rather than building. The crew stopped and stared at it as they came in. One by one, each stood before it, delaying the beginning of their workday to marvel.

All around the city, splashes of color were springing up. Someone was moving between the boroughs as if the trains were still running, as if the highways were still moving, as if the bridges had not fallen into the rivers. Here: a monster’s arm. There: fruit like the people in the city could not find wherever they looked. There, on a former church: a picture of a saint stretching out her hands to bless all. There, on a former garage: a painting of a car taking them all off into a city-scape sunset.

In every spot they sprung up, there was wonder. There was awe that something so beautiful could be in this city where there had been so much death and destruction. The rebuilding might not be for them, the people who had been left behind. But the paintings were.

People gathered in front of them, weeping.