My parents have lived in the same
apartment in New York City for over thirty years. When they bought their home,
the Upper West Side neighborhood was sketchy; I was mugged just two blocks from
home on my tenth birthday. But the place is huge and it has an incredible view
overlooking the Hudson River and Riverside Park. It’s filled with relics that my parents have
collected from their years of trips and residencies overseas. Naked statues
from Africa and Asia sit coupled on many shelves, with genitalia that reach out
and wrap around each other’s necks, Tibetan Tonkas adorn several walls, and
batiks runners line every surface. For years, even the TV was covered by a
batik screen in order to minimize what my parents considered to be an eyesore
in the house. Beautiful dishes from my great grandparents are on permanent display—cut-glass
bowls, an old silver tea set. The
apartment is elegantly homey with an ethnic flair, and my parents relish the
time they spend there together. Every
morning for thirty years, they’ve sat in bed overlooking the river as they have
their coffee—my dad on the right side, my mom on the left—talking about their
days, their memories, their kids, and anything else that occurs to them over
French Roast and steamed milk.
