Sitting on the gorgeous living room couch hidden under a protective cover, preparing lunch for Mom in her small airless kitchen, stretching the fitted sheets across the double bed that barely fits into her bedroom, has me wonder if I ever lived anywhere else.
As a child growing up in New York City I dreamed of living in a place where green hills nourished my desire for space and beauty, and friendly, smartly clad folks comfortable with themselves and their lives, populated my community. It was dreaming big then and escaping from all that I felt held me prisoner.
Now, back in New York, caring for my mother, having lived that luscious dream but for a brief 40 years, I am awakening from the reverie that made life delicious, and find myself agitated and longing, wandering in a semi-awake state, desperately trying to dream again.
"Relaxing, huh?" said my sister as she caught me dozing on the bench in the park under the bridge. Yes, it was relaxing, despite the din from the cars overhead, crossing the Queensborough Bridge. 180,000 cars cross daily, yet I dozed off. A "din" I could more easily tolerate than the loud cell phone conversations outside the ground floor living room window, more easily tolerate than the hubbub from the never ending t.v. programs in the kitchen, more easily tolerate than the complaints of Mom's irritated voice when something has upset her. That din, under the bridge, lolled me to sleep.
