We were meandering. We had from the very beginning, two years and one month ago, with many long walks that lasted a dozen hours easy. So this day, two years and one month later, was no different.
We were at the end of this particular meander. I picked University to walk up. It would lead us closer to that warehouse sale promising expensive sneakers priced down to our meager budget. And besides, it was prettier and less crowded than the other streets.
Except for the corner of 10th Street where for a couple of rich years I got to work with a great healer.
That was eleven years ago. And, after his funeral, I never once glimpsed his wife on the street. So I assumed she moved away from emptiness that happens when your comrade dies.
Yet suddenly there she was. Eleven years later, looking as beautiful as ever.
And apparently looking for a cab for her son-in-law on his way to the airport.
We hadn't met until the funeral. We hadn't spoke since. But I knew her face immediately. Their love story, unbeknownst to me until I heard his eulogy, was what kept me listening to hope that I too would meet my comrade, no matter what age I was.
All the cabs were busy or wouldn't go out to Queens before the shift changed, even with a bribe of double the fare.
How do you repay someone whose love guided absurd risks that led to your happiness?
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.