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.
Sunday Links: Phil Spector Plus MBIP Coming Attractions! - [image: 1. toptitle_dec16-17.jpg] *Last week I put a song up on facecrack from the Phil Spector Christmas Album and that caused me to start Googling him a...
2 hours ago