I met my inner child on Thursday, three days after my dad passed away.
Exhausted from grief, the sadness of loss and preparations for his service, my sister and I took a ride to my Grandmother’s house in Brooklyn. We passed the train station where my teenage uncles Lenny & Pap would pick me up, and make the call, “Put the hot iron straightening comb on the stove, we’ve got her!’ Where one of them would inevitably reach up into the ice cream vending machine for a Good Humor bar and hand it to me with pride. The train station where my mom would make the pass off, leaving the country girl in the dead center of Bed Stuy for some wild summer family times.
When we turned the corner to the old house, I couldn’t believe that was the same block. But upon seeing the house it all came…
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