I thought Madeline lived in a neighborhood somewhere near me. That's because the ubiquitous fields of ivy covered both our landscapes. Took me a little while to figure out Paris was not in Brooklyn or above 14th Street.
In later years, an explosion of potato plants and coleuses and lots of lawn-like patches appeared as the city transformed into a manicured and remodeled visiting destination and/or exclusive enclave. Or whatever kind of locale needed constant landscaping.
I didn't realize what I had missed all these years until yesterday, when I opened my eyes and saw a rolling stretch of ivy. I was back in the soft, cool shade of wishing I could visit Madeline.
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.