Sunday Morning Fever

Little has changed in the apartment I grew up in. Except that I am now a visitor. An increasingly rare visitor. There's an odd comfort in the sameness.

Where in Brooklyn? people often ask, assuming it must be someplace cool, chic, edgy, sought after. Assuming (I like to think) that I, too, must be cool, chic, edgy, sought after. I've never mastered the answer to that question, so I just name my street. Ocean Parkway. It conjures up, maybe, images of a grand boulevard spilling into a sparkling sea. I've always thought of it as neither here nor there, somewhere between the storied boardwalk of Coney Island and the highfalutin brownstones of Park Slope. South of Flatbush, Northeast of Bay Ridge. Stayin alive, staying alive.  

Last night, I lay awake on the sofa that long ago replaced the twin bed in my room, staring at the side by side wood paintings of a young girl and a young boy. The boy always appeared to be kicking an oversized soccer ball, really just a discolored knot of wood tucked into his ankle. I glanced over at the ornate oval mirror still hanging above my old dresser, where I used to sit in the mornings and get ready for school, drinking the coffee my mother had brought in for me. My mother doesn't believe in eating or drinking anywhere outside the kitchen or dining room, but she never balked at my transgression. Enabled it, even. 

I sit here with her now, in the small kitchen with the bright yellow cabinets and seat cushions, drinking coffee. She is unusually quiet, tired possibly from last night's celebration of her 89th birthday. Could she really be 89? The three framed rectangular pictures on the wall over the little round table are still there, a bit yellowed, still fascinating to me. One is a recipe for garlic bread. She hates garlic. One is instructions for flower arranging -- "Posing the Posie." I inherited my black thumb from her. Then there's the only one that ever seemed relevant: "Calories do Count." Perfect for the woman famous -- at least among my friends -- for the oft-quoted bit of wisdom: the best exercise is pushing yourself away from the table. 

New York seems to have changed considerably in the last few years. LaGuardia has a sparkling new terminal. Fifth Avenue looks a bit like Main Street U.S.A., with pricey versions of national chains lining streets once reserved for exclusive department stores. The faded lane dividers on the narrow winding highways linking Manhattan to Brooklyn have been given a facelift, painted bright white. Maybe, soon, you'll even be able to make a right on red. 

But here, in the apartment I grew up in, somewhere between Coney Island and Park Slope, little has changed. My mother and I sit in companionable silence drinking our coffee, and I can still see past the years, see vividly the young and formidable woman who raised me. Soon I will get ready for the day, my younger self gazing back at me from the ornate oval mirror, my second cup of coffee close at hand.