You can’t go home again and all that stuff. An essay about getting rid of the childhood possessions that weighed me down. Continue reading
Within days of my mom dying, Mike and I were moved into the already-cramped three bedroom house which was currently holding four people. Mike occupied the basement while I lived in the sun room (with enough room for a twin bed, small TV, and bed stand)—the former computer room which was a go-between space connecting the dining room to the closed-in porch. Continue reading
I took the W on my way downtown to Battery Park and a homeless man was cleaning himself methodically in the seats diagonal to mine. Take off shoe, take off sock, wipe, clean. Somewhere around City Hall, he took out an air freshener and sprayed the air above, around, and underneath him, and I thought, “How lovely, how considerate.” The smell of fake-summer (gardenia, freesia, aerosol) made its way to my seat and I wished that I could know his life. That I could know and change his life.