Every once in a while, Florence took us with her when she ran away, hopping an early morning F train barreling out of Delancy Street headed straight to Coney.
Once there stomping onto the 9 a.m. beach, the sand was almost always completely empty except for a few like-minded souls.
Settling in, before she nagged us into the water or before she dove in herself, swimming way out as if freed from everything that made her a human being, we'd sit.
That rare chance to be at rest and at peace with the waves and the wind and, for me, the rare chance to visit with my mother.
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