At My Daughter’s Baby Shower, Her Husband Dropped My Nine-Month Hand-Stitched Quilt On The Gift Table And Said, “This Thing Is Garbage.” I Smiled, Folded It Back Into My Tote, And Left The Country Club—Because By Morning, My Attorney Was Holding The Deed To That Lawn.
My apartment was on the fourth floor of a rent-stabilized building on a block where half the storefronts changed every eighteen months and the laundromat owner still called me Rosie even after twenty years.
One bedroom.
Galley kitchen.
Window over the sink that looked out at the elevated tracks.
