Her mother’s hand
I was brushing my teeth one morning, and I saw my hands resting
the counter. This was my maternal uncle’s hand.
I grew up in College Point, Queens. My mother never drove a car here in the US, although she drove a farm tractor back in Scotland as a teenager. So, my mother and father left, and, as children, so did we. (If we needed to go to Flushing, we took the bus.)
My main memory of walking with my mother when I was younger was how fast she walked. I quickly learned to watch both paths and run across the street.
While walking with my mother, I always hung her hands tightly. I was afraid to let go. I remember my legs popping out of the ground, when her skirt rolled over my feet, as we walked. Block after block, my hand hung for him; It was my job not to give up.
I never liked my mother’s hands, who knows why? I have always grown my nails, to make sure our hands look different (though not so tall right now that I’m in my late 60s).
When I was younger, I was told that my hands were quite beautiful. Now I see that even when she was younger, her hands were quite beautiful. I used to ask him to pet his head. I remember his hands were soft.
Yes, my mother has hands. I say they are similar.
– Nancy Hope Fisher
I live in apartment 2B. As I walked past 1B the previous winter, I heard someone playing guitar.
I identified the song as “Look at Miss Ohio”, but I never met my neighbor and didn’t want to interrupt the practice session.
So, I wrote a note on the back of an envelope, which I kept in my bag and slid under the door. “If you ever want to jam with a fiddle player, come to 2B!” The note said.
Later, after I returned from meeting the family, I found that a note had slipped under my door. This was the response of my neighbor who wrapped my letter in it and returned it.
We had four jam sessions early last year. Then, sadly, he went out in the summer. Our new downstairs neighbors once left us a note, but it was just to let us know that we walked too loudly.
– Isa Simon
The sun and the sea lanes remind me of my saltwater childhood,
When I ran away from that ocean, the tears, tides, and summer break
The cousins who lived on the other side, salt of the earth,
Descendants of war survivors,
And learned to run canoe
Through clean, cool water
Where the city and sorrow
– Joanna Brode
I was living at Carroll Gardens at the time. Every week, I would drive a few blocks to a laundromat. One of the items I had in my bag was a pair of very sharp, multi-colored striped socks.
One Sunday, after returning home and starting to twist my freshly washed clothes, I was able to find only one socks. I assumed that the lost lost forever.
As I was on my way to the laundromat a few weeks later, however, I came across the pavement in a single stroke. It had distinctive multi-colored stripes. It was a little waterlogging, but I picked it up anyway and reconnected with my brother.
Months passed, and I often wore socks. Then one day, my wife went to our bed. There was a single multicolor striped on the floor.
Now I had three.
– Alex Robbins
Metered Spot on Columbus
I parked at a metering site on Columbus Avenue while I picked up my Beagle Mable from day care.
Returning to my car after retrieving the dog, I reached for the door, only to realize that it would be a few inches behind as the SUV hit in front of me.
After putting Mabel in the car and giving him a treat, I checked my front end for damage. The driver of the SUV approached me as I did.
“Do you have time left on your meter ticket?” He asked.
“Didn’t you hit my car?” I replied.
“I tapped it,” he said. “very gentle”
“You shook my car by several inches, because I was trying to get into it, and now you are asking me to give me unused time on my ticket?”
“I walked out of the house without my wallet.”
“I admire your moxie,” I said, taking the ticket out of the dashboard and handing it over.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be more gentle next time.”
– Charity Robbie
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Picture by Agnes Lee