My mother. I love this picture of her dated 1937 on a New York Street. She was a chamber maid at a big hotel, but you would never know it from that picture. I think my father took it. He was a bellman at the same hotel. They met there and though it was a convoluted process, ended up together.
My family of origin was a family of secrets. I don't know where they worked and I found out on the day of my mother's funeral that my father had been married before. After he told me, my father said..."Don't tell your brother."
I could never prise more of the story out of him. He said he "forgot". But there she is... my mother in her prime.
There I am too, at the sandy lakefront with my SHOES and SOCKS on and my hat. I don't remember it, but I love the picture. I was never a play in the sand kind of kid. Would rather read a book but I loved to dress up.
Peeping out from behind it all is my son, with that look that he gets in his eyes when he has something on the boil inside his head and BIG excitement is ahead for someone...
The collision of time and the permeability of the membrane ...
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