Ava and I want to read. We’ve come to the High Line, on a sunny Easter afternoon, to lounge lazily and catch up on New Yorkers. We envision sitting side by side, getting lost in stories, nudging each other to read a line or two aloud (the “nudge” part is my vision, but still.) And since it’s Easter, the High Line shouldn’t be as crowded as usual.
We’re wrong. The row of chaise lounges is full. We linger, eyeing a woman who’s sprawled across a double-lounge while a single one next to her sits empty. Her face is to the sun and a very large, expensive-looking tote sits next to her - presumably, the reason she needs two lounges. Her sunglasses are too dark for eye contact but it wouldn’t matter. This one’s not budging. “Zero fucks to give” is a skill I’ll never master and I both loathe and envy her for it. My fucks are everywhere.
We walk on and take seats on the beautiful (and incredibly comfortable) teak bleachers that look down at 16th Street. Funny - we all come up here to escape the city, only to stare down at it. Ava and I flip through our magazines.
“Ben told me something Grandma said toward the end,” I say. Ava glances over.
“She said that even at her age, she missed her mother.”A smile pulls at the corner of Ava’s lip.
“And that it was very comforting to talk to old friends on the phone when she was, you know….toward the end.”
My mother’s hospice went on for way longer than the few weeks we thought it would be. Sometimes it seemed like she was about to die. Others, like she never would. Ten months of being “toward the end.”
Ten months of holding on.
Ava and I meet eyes and smile softly. We look at our magazines but we’re not reading.
“I miss her,” we say in comically perfect unison.
“She told Ben he should stay in touch with old friends because as you get older, it’s good to have people in your life who remember you - and your parents - when you were young.”
We put our faces to the sun.
When it’s time to move on, we join the throng of people headed uptown. Ava’s walking to Hudson Yards to catch the Q to her apartment.
I compliment her outfit.
“Do you think I’d look good in barrel jeans?” I ask.
“Mom.” Ava says.
I hate when she makes “Mom” a full sentence.
I sigh as we dart around a woman who’s decided that now would be a perfect time to take a picture of a pansy.
“You have to stop asking me if you’d look good in my jeans. It’s so…”
She can’t find words for exactly how atrocious this question is. She doesn’t use “cringe” as a noun, but it’s hanging there, in the sunny air between us.
We walk along with the tourists who, to my impatience, do not seem to understand that, while planted with flowers and offering views of the Hudson River and Empire State Building, this is STILL A WALKWAY!
“Why are they stopping like no one’s behind them?” I say.
“Mom.”
“Yeah…” I say, willing myself not to sound the way I feel.
“You have to accept that it’s a beautiful Sunday and people aren’t in a hurry - they just want to look at stuff and take pictures. Try giving into it.”
I sigh. It’s so annoying when she’s right. I force myself to slow down. We talk about my mother’s good advice. And about how much we hate that Ben’s heart is aching from a recent breakup. Ava has kind and wise things to say about both. Without realizing it, my pace has slowed. And I’m enjoying it.
Until a middle-aged couple ahead of us stops everything - completely blocking people from walking in either direction - to take a selfie in front of a flowering tree. And then another. And a third.
“Really?” I say. “They don’t see the line of literally, a hundred people behind them?”
“They clearly don’t,” Ava says, clipping her words.
“I get it,” I say, trying to sound light, but it comes out, “I get it.” Actually, it’s more like “I GET it.”
They take more shots, because why have three of the same photo when you can have nine? There’s no room to zip around them and Ava’s patience is driving me crazy. I turn, hoping to meet the outraged eyes of whatever sensible person is behind us.
Only to see a man smiling at a daffodil.
I get looking at it, I guess. But, really. It’s a daffodil. I take an exaggerated breath in and Ava glances at me. I force my exhale to be silent. And then, because there’s nothing else to do, I look at the damned daffodil. Ok. It’s a sweet flower. Very sweet. I remember a Passover Seder when my mother put a vase of them on the table. She looked so happy carrying it into the dining room, saying something about daffodils being the first real sign of spring.
I think about a line from an email my sister-in-law Gale wrote recently - “I know tulips kind of steal the spring show, but I love daffodils because they’re such a brave flower, coming up when the soil is barely warm.”
Gale is brilliant. And she’s right. Buttery daffodils lead the charge - they poke through the dirt and remind us that better days are ahead. With all of that, they’re humble too, bowing their heads, like proper young ladies about to meet the queen. I join the man behind me and smile. Ok, daffodil, you win. You’re amazing.
Finally, the couple finishes their epic photo shoot and we’re permitted to walk again.
“Hey, is that my sweater?” I ask with more edge than I mean to.
“I’m sorry,” Ava says. “I should have asked. But you have another one just like it and it was a little chilly so…”
We argue about whether I really have another just like it and she offers to switch with me so I can take it back home. God, she’s nice. I refuse because the hoodie I’m wearing isn’t warm. I make a lot of mothering mistakes, but dressing Ava less warmly than me will never be one of them.
We walk. And talk. About Ben’s heartache, which is killing us, because Ben is so good at happiness - having it and spreading it. It shouldn’t be legal for him to be sad. And he tries hard not to be. A brave flower if ever there was one.
We talk more - and our conversation, like the stream of people walking the High Line, meanders slowly and easily. Our edges have become as soft as the cashmere of Ava’s sweater, which brushes against my arm as we near the end of the path. I slow down because it’s sunny and beautiful. And so is my daughter. I don’t want this walk to end.
Someone darts around us and I have the nerve to judge him.
Our goodbye hug lasts longer than usual. I watch her walk off, then turn to walk back.
Before I realize it, I’m fast-walking again.
Just ahead of me, there’s a woman in an oatmeal-colored sweater. She stops suddenly. I sigh, wondering what flower she’s spotted. But she’s not looking down at the plantings. Or up at the trees. She’s looking around. Everywhere. Frantically.
She cranes her neck and I turn too. There’s no need to ask who she’s looking for - this is the kind of panic every parent recognizes. The heart-stopping blur. The din of voices as people obscenely go about their days. This is a child-gone-missing panic.
It goes on for five seconds, each of them, monumental.
And then. A girl, her sweater purple, darts past me and grabs her mother’s waist hard. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t…” The girl can’t get the words out, but the mother is saying it too. “I couldn’t find you.”
They clutch each other, crying their relief, and I’m so invested, I have to will myself not to rush over and join their huddle.
They stay that way for almost a full minute, blocking the growing line of people behind them. As if we have all day. Which suddenly, I do.
Their sweaters meld together - a beautiful fuzzy mess of purple oatmeal.
Finally, they start walking.
But their arms stay linked. The daughter leans her head into the mother’s shoulder.
They’re slow walkers, these two.
The path is wide, so there’s room for me to get around them.
But I don’t.
I amble.
And watch this mother and daughter.
They’ll have plenty of time to let go of each other.
But right now, they’re holding on.
To this precious moment.
And so am I.
Some of your best writing is about your wise mother, and the relationships between mothers and daughters. I love this insightful piece, as the wisdom is pased back and forth.
Lovely. Not for the first time do I notice the similarity between selfie and selfish. As to New York sidewalk amateurs, your daughter is kind of spirit, but I’m with you: get out of the fucking way.