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My mother declares, “No more darkness.” She reads this blog, sometimes weeks after I post, but still she reads it. “Your last posts are too dark,” she has called to scold me. She’s placing an order for something more upbeat. I laugh at her, and tell her it doesn’t work that way. I tell her that I write what I feel, I write what’s happening. I tell her that it comes from within and right now there’s a lot going on here in New York City, causing me to be reflective. “And besides that,” I reason, “I don’t really think they are dark anyway.” But she’s not listening, my stubborn Texas mother. She doesn’t hear me because I’m not saying what she wants to hear, so it’s as if my lips are moving but nothing is coming out. Growing up, it infuriated me. But now, at 46 years old, I find it endearing when she ignores me and talks over me like I’m not speaking. Because it’s hysterical to me that my mother treats me like I’m still 7 years old.

“I wonder if I’ll get kicked out without my mask.” She needs one bell pepper, she tells me. She’s about to enter the grocery store to get it, and she doesn’t have her mask. She’ll figure it out, I’m sure. She’ll get that pepper one way or another. And I’ll hear all about it later. “Hope. I want to hear hope,” she tells me. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. That’s the end of it. She hangs up, and I’m smiling.

I’m supposed to be editing something. I settle into my chair with my laptop, but I can’t seem to get going. I can see her disapproving look as the poetry takes root and I get into the flow, checking and re-checking punctuation and grammar. I stop and clear my head, releasing the work. Then I look at it again, with fresh eyes, this time her eyes. “That’s waaaaay too deep, ” I can hear her say, in my mind. With that ‘whyinthehellwouldanyonereadthiscrap’ look on her face. (Mom’s an accountant. All numbers. All the time. She says she even sees them in her sleep.) I’m smiling again, and shaking my head. I talk back to her, alone in my room. It’s no use. I can’t concentrate. And honestly, I don’t really want to.

Opening the hall closet, I pull out my suitcase. There’s still two months to go before I head to Texas for the summer. I pack my swimsuit anyway. First thing in the bag! Everyone who knows me knows that I never do anything ahead of time. Never. I usually throw things in a bag moments before I’m supposed to leave, so this is out of character for me. But I’m feeling something… and now I’m laughing. It’s hope. I’m feeling happy. The sun is shining here in New York City, and we are winning. The virus is retreating, slowly but surely. My mother is out there securing her bell pepper. Light… I see light.

My mind races ahead to summer… to the great loves of my life waiting there. Something is rising, a mixture of excitement and anticipation. Joy. In spite of the times, I feel joy. Music. I need music. “You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs…” Paul McCartney. Up goes the volume. I sing. “Some people wanna’ fill the world with silly love songs…” I’m gone, disappearing into the soundtrack of my youth… when I was little and my mother was young. Packing for summer. Planning for the future. Because my mother declared, “No more darkness.” And, God help me, it is so…

Being stuck in my apartment day after day is taking a toll on my spirit. Just out my kitchen window, over the tops of the neighboring apartment buildings, I can see Manhattan. There is a stirring within. I miss Chinatown so deeply. Staring out the window, I close my eyes, remembering…

The park would be full today. The trees would be blooming. It would be shady and cool, a tiny wonderland tucked away among the blocks of soaring buildings. It would be crowded. I would be blissfully close to strangers. The elders would be playing mahjong. I can hear their conversational Mandarin. And someone playing Erhu. The unmistakable sounds of Chinatown on Sunday afternoon. The thought of hopping the train, finding a bench and getting lost there for the day, brings tears to my eyes. Because I know that I can’t. No one can. Not right now. Not with COVID-19.

Pacing, I find myself in my daughter’s room. Usually I’m in and out, but not today. Instead, I’m looking around. At everything. At anything. Just trying to find something to ground me in all of this, because I’m starting to slip away. She is sitting at her little bamboo desk, with her watercolors and her music. And her Chinese scroll above her desk. The one that she got at a clearance sale in Chinatown. (Damn these tears!) I sit on her bed and take it all in. There with all of her plants, she is perfectly content.

I confess how I’m feeling. That I’m going crazy! That I just want to go to Chinatown! (It doesn’t help that her view of the city is even better than mine from the kitchen, so the object of my desire appears even closer, but still just out of reach.) Writing is my home. That is no secret. But all of this staying at ‘home’ is suffocating me right now! I need people and places, sounds and smells. I need inspiration. I need adventure!

She has her back to me. But she’s listening. Barely. Lost in her watercolor world, she responds just enough to keep from losing me altogether. I’m not getting any traction. And that diffuses me. So I tune into her contentment. That’s when I see them. Her tiny little paintings. She has stuck them all over her walls.

They are incredibly lovely, transporting even. There is just something so pure about them. So I stop talking and get lost in them for a moment. Each one seems to have a one word message for me. And within that one word is a deep well of timeless truth, where my very essence is revealed to me through the mirror image of humanity, through my daughter.

I make my way back to myself…

Sometimes everything you need isn’t really out there. It’s just down the hall, in your teenage daughter’s room, with her indie music, her plants, her watercolors, her precious little paintings, her Chinese scroll that she got in Chinatown on clearance, and her not listening. Because it takes you to a place you might not ever have reached otherwise…

It was the first place I felt at home here in the city. It was the first place someone knew my name, the first place someone shared their phone number. It was my first taste of community, my first feeling of family so far from home.

It’s the first place my kids want to go when they arrive from Texas, the first stop my mom makes when she visits, and the first thing I do with out-of-town guests who want a tour… because the bodega is the heart and soul of New York City. (If someone in a New York bodega knows your name, you’ve arrived!)

My neighborhood bodega, Orchidea Deli, is family owned and operated by Cammie and Jose Bello. They are the heart and soul of Avenue H in Midwood, Brooklyn, along with Tajj, Jose Jr., and Yeidi (their grown children), Martin (who works in the deli), and Marta (who works the front). And, yes, I refer to it as mine. Because that is the nature of the neighborhood bodega. It belongs to you, and you belong to it. Mutually invested in each other.

Egg whites, avocado, lettuce, tomato, and pickles on a roll, no salt, no pepper, no mayo, no cheese. That’s my breakfast order. My little sandwich that they make with love, the way that only a New York deli can. With coffee and ‘Good Morning‘ conversation (a little neighborhood gossip, local and national news, mixed with well wishes and blessings for the family), it’s the perfect way to start every day, steps from the morning train.

Typically, Tajj and I trade ideas, while Maxey and Yeidi talk hair, Mike and the two Joses discuss what’s up in the neighborhood, and Cammie keeps her eye on us all. But with ‘New York on Pause’, while we wait out COVID-19, routines have changed. No more swimming upstream against the rush of students making their way down Avenue H, having just gotten off the morning train, bound for Brooklyn College. Now, the quiet walk to the bodega is more of a mental health exercise than anything else. A reminder that there is still life out there, that there was something before COVID-19 and there will be something after it.

The absence of the students, alone, has been enough to close the little cluster of businesses in my neighborhood. Those students getting on and off the train, right there, every morning and every afternoon, are the bread and butter of the usually thriving small businesses. Even so, bruised and battered, the bodega remains a bright spot on our shuttered street with the ‘Coffee’ sign burning bright in the window all day.

Masked up, we enter, with only three people allowed in the store at a time, in order to adhere to the current social distancing guidelines. Separation, in the way of masks, gloves, and sheets of plastic, keeps everyone safe. Such a sterile contrast to the close, crowded conditions of yesterday, when you could feel the warmth of your neighbor while you waited in line on a cold day.

We are entering a new normal. There has been a shift in focus, from continuing and growing peaceful unity to prioritizing safe distancing. My hope is that for all of our ‘social distance’, we will not sacrifice any hard-won gained ground. Because I believe in a human family, one where we are measured by the circumstances and treatment of our most vulnerable, and by the closeness, not the distance, of our people. I believe in greeting with a soft kiss and saying goodbye with an intimate hug.

I believe in a human family that looks like a New York City bodega, where everyone coming through the door has a story, and all are welcome, one great big global community mutually invested in each other. No matter where and what you come from, you’re front and center, showing up right here, right now, ever better, day by day.

My prayer remains the same, that when all of this is over, ultimately love will be the lasting legacy.

Until then…

Layer, upon layer, upon layer of separation, yet still connected…

Take care of each other out there.

While the whole house sleeps, I’m happy in the quiet. This is the dream. This is actually the dream. This moment with the writing, and the camera. And the city just outside. Realizing it’s not the praise or the paychecks. It’s the words. The stories. In the silence. They are the certainty in these uncertain times, the constant for the writer. They are home, for me.

I needed the sea and sky, in all their glory, because the walls were closing in and fear started creeping. I craved the widest expanse I could find and the brightest of light to chase away the shadows. So I went. There in the light of day, at the edge of the Atlantic, my truth found me…

There will be no room for fear when this over. There will be no waiting ’til the perfect time to make a move. There will be no more excuses. Only life, and the living of it. There will be long hugs and sweet kisses, laughter and deep conversations, because moments together are entirely too precious for anything less. There will be nothing left unsaid. There will be forgiveness. There will be a letting go. Because finally, after all this time, I have learned how. This space, this place in time, has left me no other choice. There will be stillness. And rest. There will be love. Pure love. And peace. Never to be threatened again. Because of all that I have lived through, because of all that I have learned. I can see myself, now. I mean really see myself. I love my grey hair. And the lines in my face. Because they just are. It’s like the sea, in me. Ebb and flow, come and go. But not quite yet. Because after this, after all of this, life is going to know…

“You call me. You’re in my city, now. I’m your Daddy. You need something, you call me.”

He’s 84 years old. Still working full-time as a master plumber here in New York City. His phone rings non-stop. Upon answering, conversational French, Spanish, or English ensue depending who is on the other end. In his spare time he does general contracting, specifically apartment building renovations. My father-in-law is a powerhouse. He’s what we all aspire to be as we age- sharp, incredibly quick-witted, dressy, loving and protective, but most importantly the emergency contact for his granddaughter. Oh yeah, and he is smooth. I mean really smooth. The ladies love him.

Of course, as COVID-19 sweeps the city, he has been at the forefront of my mind. Because we are all separated right now, in our respective homes, staying put and keeping safe, catching up with each other via phone. Time can’t seem to pass quickly enough, counting the days until this is over, ’til he can come for Sunday coffee again. The last time he visited, he tried raw agave in his coffee rather than sugar. He’s like that, incredibly curious, especially if it’s something that might be good for him.

That is something that I have always appreciated. In fact, he is the only person who has never judged me for not owning a microwave. He even actually listened when I explained what it does to the food. He appreciates my quirks, and goes with the flow, choosing instead to focus on what really matters… that I am a damn good mother to his grandchildren.

Today, I watched as my husband and two of his siblings packed him up in the car. He called a few days ago and told us he is unable to swallow solid food. He hasn’t been able to eat for nine days. Conference calls between his 5 children in NYC, DC, and Ft. Lauderdale became urgent. Paramedics were called at one point to ensure his stability, as he was going down fast. Have you ever tried to get care, diagnostic care, for someone in the epicenter of a pandemic? It’s scary. Because it’s impossible. So he was packed up, driven to the airport, and flown out to his youngest daughter in Florida. Out of his city. My husband masked him, gloved him, and I sent him off with a pair of sunglasses to protect his eyes. I couldn’t hug him, or kiss his cheek. I had to stay back, faithfully socially distancing so as not to put him at risk.

Tonight, I sit. Praying for his safety. Tears welling since we received his call letting us know he is safely in Florida. He sounded weak. But he’s with Elizabeth. Thank God for Elizabeth. She will get to the bottom of it. She will get him the care that he needs. Outside of this madness, in a state that doesn’t want to receive New Yorkers for fear of COVID-19.

Florida, we have sent you a most prized possession. His name is Yves Eugene Legagneur. He immigrated from Jeremie, Haiti at 18. He served in the United States Army, as an Airborne Ranger. He isn’t perfect by any means, none of us are, but he is still actively contributing to our family, his community, this city and this country, to the best of his ability, at 84 years of age. We still have so much to learn from him. He is adored by his children and grandchildren. Beloved by his daughter-in-law. Take good care of him, Florida. Don’t let us down. We are entrusting you with national treasure…

Spring has come to Brooklyn in the midst of a pandemic. And I am left wondering what to do with it. It’s strange to enjoy such beauty, to soak up the warmth of the sun, and to smell the fragrance of blooming honeysuckle, jasmine, and magnolia, while ambulances zoom past and people suffer.

I am doing all that I can do. I rise and run my three miles every morning, fanatically maintaining the proper social distance. Then back inside. I walk Charlotte, only one long walk a day now to minimize our exposure. Then back inside. That’s the extent of my venturing out right now, except for a trip to my local co-op for food and supplies once a week, on Tuesdays.

It is that one walk a day with Charlotte that saves me. She has no idea the world is upside down. We take our time and we walk far, carefully picking a path with the least amount of contact. Today, we walk up Ocean Avenue, take a right on Avenue J, then up East 19th Street through an orthodox Jewish neighborhood. It’s the Sabbath, and approaching sunset. I hear prayers coming from open windows. It’s beautiful. And it makes me homesick for Texas. For something timeless, for something that came before me and for something that will remain after.

Every day, at the end of our walk, Charlotte and I make our way to my car parked on the street. We get in and sit there. She watches for squirrels while I treat myself to a phone call with my mother, losing all track of time.

Every day Mom asks me what I did today, and every day we bust out laughing because it doesn’t change. She had gotten used to answers like… “I spent the day in Chinatown with my laptop, then caught the train to Coney Island and swam.” Or… “I went thrifting in Park Slope, and wound up in Little Italy where I ate an entire Margherita pizza by myself.” But all of that ended with COVID-19’s appearance.

“Someone’s in my house,” Mom blurts on our call today. “Daddy!” “It’s Daddy.” “Oh my gosh, Nick, you should see him.” I hang up and Facetime her. This is what I see when the call picks up…

There he is. My Grandad. 88 years old, in the throes of a pandemic, with his little mask on his head, smiling at me. My heart leaps. He tells me everything that is going on there. I tell him everything that is going on here. He just got back from getting his chainsaw serviced. He says he needs to trim some limbs that are interfering with his television reception, because he needs to see the news. He says he is washing his hands. He tells me there are five cases of Coronavirus in Wise County. I tell him the latest stats on my zipcode here in Brooklyn… 848 positive cases out of the 1334 tested.

The three of us talk and laugh, with an unspoken agreement to keep it light, ultimately discussing how and where I will quarantine when I finally venture to Texas for summer. There is no fear. No anxiety. Only hope, and promise, and planning. Strength and purpose showing up in the midst of uncertainty, as the sounds of their voices anchor my gypsy soul. Me in my car in Brooklyn, New York. My mom sitting in her bed, in Boyd, Texas. My Grandad sitting there in the old rocking chair that he and my Nano bought my mom when I was born. Each of us making the best of the day, of the circumstances, of the moment we’ve been given. The three of us blooming in chaos…

I wake up and put my running clothes on. They need a good wash, but that will have to wait. Because our laundromat closed. The sign on the door says, “Closed Until Farther Notice. God Bless. Be Well.” Peering through the metal gate, I check for updates, for signs of life. But there are none.

It’s a rainy Saturday here in New York City, and I cannot believe where I’m at right now. This space, this place in time. In the throes of a freakin’ pandemic.

‘Farther,’ the misuse of the word brings a slight smile to my lips as I think of the proprietors. They speak very little English. Chinese-Americans, a young married couple and their little boy. I think he’s around 3. They are constantly chasing him around the machines. He is mischievous, and delightful. He is charming and extremely intelligent, the kind of child that you never forget. I can hear their laughter. I miss them. I send up a silent prayer for their safety. I don’t even know their names. When this is all over I will ask.

I head outside into the misty morning and run my three miles, punishing myself with the last 100 yards. Running hard, feeling my heart beat steady and fast, drawing my breath deep down into my lungs. Conscious of my health. Aware of my mortality.

What are we doing here, people? How did we get here? I can’t even tell you how many days have gone by since everything stopped. They fade into each other. I wake up. I run. I write. I read. I walk Char. I cook. I eat. I sleep. And start it all over again. No more hopping the train and crossing the Manhattan Bridge with my laptop, finding a place in the city to write, where I can order a strong cup of coffee and blend in with the scenery as I watch people go by- their walk, their mood or smile inspiring an entire trilogy.

The rain is lonely today. I miss my grown kids. I miss my grandfather. My aunt. My uncle. I miss my friends. I miss my neighbors. I miss my mom. Hell, I miss strangers! I walk Char to my car, parked around the way. I unlock the door and get in. For a split second I entertain just driving away. Just hitting the road and seeing where I end up. I had planned a weekend on the Connecticut coast before this all began. Maybe I’ll just drive to Texas… but then the grim reality sets in. There is nowhere to run. It’s everywhere.

I dial my mom and sit in my car talking with her for a solid hour while the rain falls outside. Sitting in the car never felt so good…

Finally we hang up, but I just can’t bring myself to get out right away. My mind wanders as I stare out the window. I think about the family from the laundromat again. It occurs to me that they got it right. ‘Farther’ is meant to measure actual distance, while ‘further’ is figurative.

Aah, yes, they got it right… there will be actual distance from where we used to be when all of this is over. We will be leaps and bounds from where we used to be. Never again taking for granted the fresh scent of clean running clothes, the sound of laughter coming from a family chasing a child through their American dream, or the feeling of that child running into your arms, a perfect stranger, in a mock attempt to escape his adoring parents. That magic, the utter magic of the day to day, never to be lost on us again.

So much farther along…

Take care of each other out there.

Two years ago…

Spring Break 2018: Boyd, Texas

We arrived to butter beans with ham on the stove, and cornbread in the oven. Grandad had cooked Maxey’s favorite. I cried.

We spent lazy days with Nano and Grandad, exploring outside and going through old photos with my mom’s infectious laughter in the background. We talked about life, death, and everything in between- not taking a single moment for granted.

So much history. So much perspective. So much wisdom.

I am so incredibly grateful.

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This “memory” from my Facebook feed has my eyes welling this morning. So much has changed in two years. What a bittersweet thing a memory is. With every cell in my body, I’m grateful for how I have been loved all my life. I’ve done all I can to give it back out there, no matter where I am and what I’m doing, no matter if I have a little or a lot. Some days I’m better at it than others, but always, always, I’m givin’ it all I got. There’s a whole lot going on in that big ole’ world right now. Have to take a minute to say that wherever you’re at and whatever you’re doing, there’s a small town girl in a great big city who loves you all so much.

Take care of each other out there.