"Commence," Florence would command. My unwilling fingers would touch ivory keys, and I'd begin the scales or triads or charming little piano piece for young people she was always dragging me through.
The journey through Her New York began in this room, once my first bedroom, once her last bedroom.
Now, emptied of second-hand clothes, bent pictures, beaten up blankets, rickety old wooden furniture, radios from the 1970s, chairs found on the street, tables left behind by departing girlfriends, it comes to an end.
Staring at the door, I heard her ghost command, "Commence."
My unwilling fingers touched camera buttons and began dragging myself through unspoken memories and inherited ghosts buried deep beneath my soul.
**
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