A New York Scene

A pretty lady with a scarf covering her head sat on a wheelchair, a tall nurse by her side.  The pretty lady looked vaguely familiar.  I squinted and her face came into focus.  “Mami!”  My little sister and I ran up the stairs as swiftly as our little legs could carry us.  She had been gone a few days, but in child speak it was an eternity.  Her outstretched arms swallowed us whole into her embrace.  Then I remembered why she had been gone.  “Where’s the baby?”  Her thick eyebrows arched.  Tears fell.  Dad winced and looked at his feet.



My childhood bedroom fit separated twin beds, a couple of chest of drawers and a nightstand, leaving plenty of room to attempt somersaults and play jacks.  Then, my sister and I moved to my grandparents.  We shared a full-sized bed and chest of drawers, with some room to play jacks and walk Duncan yo-yos.  Meanwhile, my parents bought a house, and we returned.  They stacked twin beds and squeezed in a nightstand to a room with no closet, barely leaving room for us to hop off bed.  The older I got, the smaller my bedroom.  I felt like an afterthought.