Each time we'd lean forward or walk past her or even when she jumped up on chairs so we could scratch her ear, Goldie would recoil, desperate to protect herself from a past she couldn't tell us about, but terrified if she didn't let us touch her she wouldn't get fed.
A thousand cans of cat food later, sometimes 8 at night, sometimes 4 in the morning, she knows even as she cringes, she'll be fed, she'll be scratched, she'll be loved. No matter what. She knows there are toys to chase, hands that willingly rub her belly, and lots of warm blankets and clean laundry and laps to rest in, even if it is just killing time before another can.
It is when the birds are out, she can forget the past. For here, she gets a chance to dream, on a full stomach, of the hunt.
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.