Sunday, February 1, 2015

A Brooklyn Minute

I see her now, walking up from Avenue I; walking slowly, her purse swinging at her side.  She wears a pink, broadcloth suit with a black crepe de chine blouse.  She has on her black straw picture hat - the one with the pink rose pinned to the front of the brim.  There's even a black hanky fanning out of the breast pocket of her jacket.  And gloves.  She wears black kid gloves.  Her shoes are suede - black suede with ankle straps and low platforms and thick heels - "Cuban heels."  (the things we remember!)

Slowly.  Self-consciously. Not concerned that people will comment on her appearance - although there might actually be a touch of that.  But afraid that people will notice her awareness of her every breath, her sense that the next breath won't come, that gravity will snap and she will be hurtled into space.  Afraid that people will notice her fear.

I was sitting on the steps of our house waiting for her.  I always did that.  And I remember running to meet her, to walk the last piece of her trip with her.  She'd breathe easier and return to the security of communication.  "Lost in a corn field  --" that's how she described her recurring dream. Probably this recurring panic.  A kind of claustrophobia.

When they say we become our mothers - I somehow thought it meant our looks, our actions; the tangible.  I didn't look for her in my own unspeakable fear.  Two life-times ago.  At least.   Now in this room.  Dark already - a winter afternoon. Bundled in afghans against the cold.  No wonder I'm such a frigging claustrophobic.  No wonder I'm time traveling.  Ah - my faithful - flawless solution: I think I'll go to the movies!!

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