Summer, 1995
The last of several strokes put my mother in a nursing home in Flushing, Queens, where my father’s constant visits and meddling in her health and welfare unnerved the aides, the nurses, the therapists, and the entire managerial …
I push forward. I pull back. Push forward. Pull back. Forward. Back. My hand grips the handle of my Shark “ultra-light upright,” walks it through my apartment. White noise constant, silencing my grief-stricken brain. She’s not dead. She’s not dead. …
Back in the 70s, whenever I saw a youngish woman dressed for business, a parcel of groceries in her arms after a day’s work, I wanted to be her. I wanted her pantsuit life, a life of accomplishment and purpose, …