Written for OLWG#95
When I moved to New York, I had it in my head that I needed to live in that neighbourhood because… well because I was a big fan of David Peel and The Lower East Side Band. I used to go outside and walk the streets communing with the ghosts of all the famous people who had grown up there. The neighbourhood is ripe with spirits. People like The Marx Brothers, Eddie Cantor, Al Jolson, The Gershwins, and Jimmy Durante; to name a few.
My mother had been born somewhere below Delancey, and I saw her once. It was late on a spring afternoon, right before dinner time. I was walking near the corner of Broome and Orchard. Mom was younger than she had ever been when I knew her; she was maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. She was smoking. I don’t know for sure that she saw me, but I think she must have.
She did a double take, reddened, and flipped her cigarette into the street with a practised hand then looked into my eyes and mouthed my name, “TN?”
I greeted her politely then watched as her smile turned over and her eyes glaze. She shook her head, glanced up and down the street a few times, perplexed; then she too vanished in the dusky, fading light. I’ve gone back a few times but I’ve never seen her again.
This week’s prompts were:
- outside
- just ice
- Hi, Mom
tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice 
After my mother’s death, my half-sisters and I were tasked with closing up our family’s home. We spent a lot of tie looking through photo albums of our parents lives before any of us were part of their story. My sisters were particularly moved by pictures of our mother with their father, taken a short time before our mother and her first husband started dating. They both remarked that looking at these photos was like time traveling back to when it all began for them. Your story reminded me of that time.
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It’s funny, how you remember certain things. Small things. Things that seem insignificant at the time, but somehow these things manage to convey emotion, or a mood that overhangs what might actually have been going on. They make it real.
I am happy that my story invoked that memory for you. I didn’t know where it was going when I started writing.
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At first I thought this might be about time travel – but I think it’s about memory, perhaps dementia. Very lovely tribute to those who have passed.
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Thank you.
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I used to dream about my mother and occasionally I still do, even though it has been more than 30 years since she passed.
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I’ve no solid memory of my birth mother as she passed when I was very young. I always thought she might be looking down at me… helping. But after reading thoughts about reincarnation and folks making their own heavens… I think perhaps some spirits have a life elsewhere.
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I guess we’ll all find out sooner or later. Hopefully later, rather than sooner.
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Always better to be vertical and on the green side of the grass…
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