Passing Moishe's unadorned window day in and day out and staring at the filled trays of everything we were never allowed to eat was just another occasion for me to yearn and dream. Once in a while, I'd get hold of a black and white cookie or a chocolate bell, either through begging a luckier friend to share or bought with money that perhaps might have been illicitly procured. I don't recall.
The other day, finishing another round of prep to sell Florence's last home, I stepped up to the window. Forty-five years later I still didn't feel allowed to do more than yearn and dream. Of course, now I had more reasons other than 'my parents won't let me'. Like none of my jeans fit, I hadn't been to the gym in months, gluten made me sick, sugar was bad for me, I hadn't had dinner, I should eat more veggies....
Fuck it, I said and walked in and pointed to a bunch of stuff I had always wanted, and before I got home half of those things were already gone.
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.