Forty-five years ago, we held hands in this room. Sitting exactly where I was sitting taking this picture.
That grasp between us was how we pulled each other through bewildering and frightening times. When we couldn't hold hands, a secret signal - one ring - signaled the other that a phone call was critical...
...dragging the old phone extension into the bathroom, all those long talks deep into the night...
Teenage love rarely lasts, although Romeo and Juliet took it way too far. We had other things to do. Our grasp and our fierce adoration of his mother, Jutta continued us on in other ways.
And so we did.
Those days, like this room, are now both long gone. It is time to pack up that former home he grew up in and I visited every chance I could.
I understand we are now near sixty, not near fifteen. Yet, as we push cartons, and wrap plates, we still talk as we did as kids. Perhaps less about high school and more about how to grieve and still hold onto hope.
It is that old grasp and our fierce adoration of his mother, Jutta that continue us on in other ways.
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.