I often begin my mornings sitting quietly in the living room with a cloudy mug of PG Tips, watching the traffic on the Tappan Zee Bridge. The Tappan Zee is a fabled stretch of concrete and steel, desperately overwhelmed and showing its age. But, most days, it faithfully does its job providing mindless and safe passage over the Hudson to thousands of commuters.

I wonder at times, what would happen if my bridge gave into its age, sighed heavily and collapsed into the Hudson? Chaos would ensue; people would be instantly cut off from their jobs and communities would suddenly be disconnected. The old bridge is a tenuous vein that sustains life in the metro region. Without that bridge, the flow of life would end and communities would die of isolation.

Sometimes, as I stare at the bridge, I think of Robert. He is a hushed homeless man who hangs out on the peeling green benches in Harlem’s Marcus Garvey Park. The first time I met Robert, I kept staring at his hands. An African-American from St. Croix, Robert had vivid white hands, cracked and swollen from the cold and the alcohol. They were thick and heavy, folded into his ragged green sweatshirt.