I took an elevator ride to a reprieve from worrying and calling and emailing and strategizing is the eye infected can we get her out of bed what about the air conditioner where can we leave some sense of control does it even matter.
A young hand stopped the elevator door from closing and the two women entered, a home attendant puzzled by a voice mail on her cell and the other a tiny little old lady dandelion obviously loved enough to be dressed well and smell clean. The little dandelion leaned on her walker. I smiled at her. I smiled because I knew how few people did because old age is what cancer used to be - if you don't look it in the eye it will never happen to you. Such loneliness, such loneliness. To be and not be seen.
I was going to 9 and they got off 6 or 7 the home attendant guiding the little dandelion out. But once in the hallway the dandelion started pushing her walker back into the elevator her face befuddled frightened trying to get some place important. The door closing, I heard the young home attendant.
"Florence. Florence. This way. It's this way home."
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.