It was her annual trip...
...when in an elevator she had traveled in over half her life, she pointed to the worn patch of wood and said, "This is still here."
After dinner the missing of mothers drifted into words.
I looked up.
What was still here was how certain nights still felt like Florence if she were a New York evening.
So we wandered and looked at what was still here.
The Thristythird Friday In August: A Pizza Party @ Biggie’s! - [image: 1. toptitle_august18-17.jpg] *In case you missed it the other week, I put up a notice that there’s been a little scheduling change here on MBIP. I...
6 hours ago