Memory Tour

As we walked through 5 neighborhoods of Brooklyn in one day and 4 neighborhoods of Manhattan that one balmy weekend, we remembered the time when she made up a bed for me in her sun-lit home, in the room with the balcony and the multi-colored quilt. When I would sit at her kitchen table watching her at the stove, mix concoctions, roll meatballs, sauté vegetables, and tell her about my day at school. When we would lounge at the pool in her backyard, where she would tell me that my body would change, that I should feel lucky to be a Chamberlain with only just a hint of sarcasm, that I would find another boy to kiss even if the boy I was kissing smelled like Michael Jordan cologne and had gel in his hair. We remembered the beach with driftwood and drip sand castles and the cottage with collections of sculls and sand and grandchildren. Woven through our conversations and our subway rides and crossing intersections, memories of her mother and my mother flowed freely, almost as though the two woman walked with us, laughing with us at the passing characters, wiping their sweaty brows with us, holding our hands like they used to when we were young.