![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhES-LTQ757KsJCPX5u7ZIvb2HgpbdQB-GvmoNKu-DqAWszeAAfD7tsSPqaFZl44McRsTUdkxErpCGlMv_C1tc1WH6Lw2EF1lxtMpXaIKiRm0wrrEdQrohNrppv9IE-UB6UXEDP7LkGW22t/s320/room+with+a+view3.jpg)
At the end of us all being a family she moved into our childhood bedroom and never left.
Now when I sit beside her I see what I looked at for hours before I learned to talk and what I looked at after I learned to say nothing.
A My Private Coney project
Flash non-fiction, brief moments and old memories of a city and mother's emotional and physical real estate disappearing at the speed of heartbreak.