It doesn't matter that she hadn't walked in months after she decided somewhere deep inside never to stand on her own two feet. We kept all her shoes.
Because maybe one day, after all the massages and all the physical therapy and all the coaxing, a breeze might, through the window cracked open just a tiny bit, dance around her and remind her of the wonderfulness outside. And maybe just maybe she'd want to put on her shoes again and return to her own two feet.
Florence used to say denial wasn't to be sniffed at.
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.
In Memoriam: Lloyd M. Rucker, 1957-2013
The Chelsea community is united this week in mourning the passing of one of its own, artist Lloyd M. Rucker. Although the exact circumstances of Lloyd’s deat...