I am standing on the platform of the A train in Manhattan. My mother is with me. It’s winter. I am 8 years old, and I’m wearing the navy and green watchman’s plaid coat with the princess style cut. My father bought it for me. I love this coat.
It’s daytime and I’m accompanying my mother on errands: bras to be purchased at deep discount off the table at Lane Bryant – the “big girls” store.
Next, sheet music at Times Square, aria practice for Mom’s upcoming performance at Henry Street Settlement on the Lower East Side; S. Klein for Jean Nate body splash and matching powder my mother swipes under her pendulous breasts. She’s teaching me How to Ride the Subway. If we get separated, I’m to wait for her at the station where we lost each other. “Don’t move!” she warns. “I’ll be back for you.”
I don’t believe her.
