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gift box with lid does the woman in the painting have a secret?

by:Mengsheng     2020-04-10
gift box with lid does the woman in the painting have a secret?
My father's friend's wife can't iron his shirt."They don't wash the floor either, I'm sure," My mother said evenly.She spoke to me and through me.One of us was in the elevator of the New York apartment building and walked to the basement.
a woman named flosh was going to spend two dollars to teach my mother how to iron a man's shirt.My mother told me that the wife had a degree in psychology or social work and that they would see the patient as my father did in the living room."Let's say I'm aware of this," My mother said .
" We walked into a gray corridor.
It's 1964 years old.
I'm 8 years old.
My public school is very strict and girls can't wear pants even in a snowstorm.My father is writing his psychology paper, self-border.Believe it's the name of the fourth shady person who lives in our apartment.
My father teased me and said that when I grow up, I will get my doctorate.D.I also believe in his approach.He didn't tell my mom she 'd get her PhD.D.My mother is a housewife.We walked a wide corridor with padlock doors.Super Red-Silda, daughter with hair, lives here.
We roller-Skate on the velvet floor, watch Porter Otto, who has a number on his arm and sleeps in the storage room behind the old newspaper tower.The laundry room exudes a delicious smell of wet wool, always rumbling from the dryer.My mom said hello, how can you speak in a bright voice, and flosh looks up.
She gave my mother the same half.
I saw her smile to everyone who spoke to her.There were folds on her face, and she was as black as a bird and as delicate as a plum.Her iron looks heavy.It's thum banging on the blackboard and the sound is a slow heartbeat all day long.
The white wives in our building paid her 20.Five cents for a shirt.I dragged my wet clothes from the washing machine.My mother picked a shirt and took it to Flossie and handed her the money that disappeared into the work clothes of clay color.
Then fridges put the shirt wedges on the nose of the board.My father wears a shirt every day.If my mom doesn't give the shirt to flosh anymore, they can save $5 a month.I pulled out the shelf from the harsh metal rack on the wall until I found a shelf that was not filled with other people's clothes and hung it on a stick stiff and dry.
When I put on my father's socks and underwear, I read a lesson: ironing with an iron, then my mother ironing, and then my mother using her head tipShe's so beautiful, my mother.She has distant blue eyes and cheekbones like a butter knife.Her chin is like my grandmother's porcelain cup.
She sat in our building every week to take pictures because an artist, a woman she liked, asked her to be a model;At that time, I saw her slipping out of her cage, talking to the artist about books, drinking tea and watching the Hudson River shine.Under the shelf behind the wall is a gas burner.Rows of beautiful orangeTightly controlled blue flameOtherwise, they will stand up and lick their clothes.
Amazon dryer local bookstore charges quarterly.The shelves are free.My mother came over with the shirt hanging on the hanger.She said: "She is a good teacher. you are a good teacher ."Then she said, "My work is done ."A few weeks later, my father did something amazing in our living room.
He asked my mother to dance.
It was dark after dinner, though it was never the day for us as our living room was in a ventilation well, low and my bedroom was facing a brick wall.My mother and I packed the table.My father usually went straight to his desk and picked a record album: "boyfriend."The record is what we do for entertainment.
We don't have TV.
But we do have this kind of record machine made of thick and shiny plastic, the color is like eggplant.I'm not allowed to touch it.My father held his arm on the record and put the diamond needle down.At the beginning I knew they were lying and I knew they were so warm and happy.
But my parents pretend that this is happiness.My father sat on the sofa, his elbows and knees spread out like a mantis.My mother opened a book at the other end and stuffed her toes under his leg.
My father said, "dance for us, yum .
"My mother dancing?The ladies are singing now. I think it's great to shoot them.Mother smiled, shook her head and kept reading.The cover of the book says a golden bowl."Come on, yum," My father said with encouragement.
“Dance.
"I'm not a dancer," My mother said.
But she stands.
At the beginning I knew they were lying and I knew they were so warm and happy.But my parents pretend that this is happiness.Every girl needs a boyfriend now.I was shocked that we were happy to die for him;Like everything else on this record, it feels fake and familiar.
My mother moved in a new way, and at first she seemed to be testing whether the air was dry or not and then walking towards the wall --to-We can't see a boyfriend's bookshelf on a stage without it.She swivels.She bit her lips."Wow," said my father, but she ignored him.She grabbed a toe, climbed up the skirt and pushed her chest away.
Then the song was over and she sat there as if she had just walked into the room and re-Tuc toe up and open the golden bowl of her bookmark.“Yum!My father cried while clapping."Where did you learn?But he did not ask, nor did my mother answer."Oh, I just make up when I go," she said .
".
I didn't ask my mother that night: Why don't you dance every day?Why not take your husband's hand and pull him into the ball?Why not take your daughter's hand and pull her into the dance?Where will the dancing mother go when she is not here?Where is she all her life?The dancing mother hid, but three years later, on a spring Saturday, when I was eleven, my father and I walked into the place where she once lived.I don't think my mom wants us to see it.We took IRT for a walk on the 14 th Street.My parents like walking.My father's dream is to walk in Edinburgh again, and my mother's dream is to walk in Paris.
We walked to the city center on the 6 th and my parents held hands.My father sang a song he learned in the Navy.Dirty Lily lives on top of the garbage Hill.
It makes me sad.
Does he think she wants the sailors to make fun of her and let her live there?All of a sudden, the woman shouted from a high place and then rolled the ball-There is some paper scattered on the sidewalk, just like the fat chewed --I want to open a pearl because they seem to fall from the distant world."It's not right," My father said seriously.When I walked past the women's prison, I always felt like I was dreaming.
It was high, there was a dark window, it was a prison, but the ladies shouted out of it and I didn't understand what they were shouting.Also, if they are locked out and out of reach, how can they get rid of these messy files?What do they want to say?We went further on the narrow streets of the city center.Finally, I asked, "Why did they throw those paper balls?My mother took a look at my father.
"They wrote their names and phone numbers on these notes," she said ."."They called people to call their husbands and children and leave messages for them."Like what information?” I’m thrilled.These white balls are like light from the stars that died a long time ago.
"I love you," My mother said happily.
“What else?"We are now in the West Village.My father took us to the right and turned back to the sixth bend, and my mother stopped suddenly and I stepped on her heel.If she thinks I can't say itWe are at the corner of a street with a name you can sing: Mineta Lane, my mother is looking at the first pink building I have ever seen.
I like it right away.
This is the Barbie Dream House I am not allowed to have.There are white blinds on the windows and one in the Houseiron gate.Behind the gate is a small foyer in the foyer.
Black hanging lanterns that melt the color on the wall."Oh," My mother said, as if the air had just blown out of her.My father looked at her patiently.He likes to move on."I used to live here," My mother said .".She sounds surprised."It's a sweet place, yum," My father said, looking at his watch .
".
"Aren't you hungry?"I feel that hunger is so unreasonable that I can't even parse it myself.But I want this mother, the one who lives in a pink building, the one who dances.My mother is very dreamy when looking at lanterns.
My father is watching the Street View.
I held the locked iron door with my hands and tried to lock myself in."I scream, you scream," My father said ."."We all scream ......" "How can you leave?” I ask.My mother touched one of my hands."The apartment is small and dark," she said gently ."."It faces the courtyard.Nothing special.But she was wrong.The apartment has the sun, cats and hanging plants.
It has pink walls like a stage set where the mother can dance.It has a table for two."I promise you," she said .""It's not like inside or outside.In 1970, I was 14 years old and lived in latchmont, a suburb of New York.We have few houses.My mother is still ironing shirts for my father.
She put them in a vegetable preservation box and kept them damp until she could get them.She already taught me the art of flosh.Cuffs, collar, shackles, sleeves.We do the corner of the hospital, we repair the sanitary facilities, clean the ring on the bathtub.I should have folded my father's underwear out of the dryer, which made me sick, but no one was able to get it out of the dryer.
Send the best Longreads of the week to your inbox every Friday afternoon to start your weekend reading.A portrait of my mother's oil painting is now hanging between me and my parents' bedroom.It grabbed her perfectly.Distant blue gaze, so faint sadness, it's really not there, you want to track its skeleton structure with your fingers so elegant.
I need to have this picture and plan to steal it one day.I lay on the guest bed in my mother's messy study, where she billed my father's patients, the first time she mentioned the artist she knew.His name is Bill Rivers.Bill is the name of a man.She talked only about my father and only about the man who married her briefly twice.
All she said to him was that he left her beloved bulldog Chiefie in the hot car and killed him.I sit up."His name is Heywood, but everyone calls him Bill."She looked at my father's handwriting and then made a click from her red constituency.
"It was a long time before you were born," she said ." She was sitting in a chair spinning at me."We are just friends," she said .""I don't know what a great artist he is, but I know I like to be with him and I like to be with the artists he spends.
Those are some big names.
He will take me to a bar in East Village where there are painters and writers.She looked at me tightly."They found me interesting.I have wisdom in those days.”“Gee,” I say.She made a soap bubble around us.It may break if I speak."This is a fierce wisdom.” She sighs."A group of us would drink and chat, draw and sometimes write, and I was always the kind of ironic answer that made everyone laugh."I was so focused, I nodded and nodded until I was rocking.
"They like me there," she said .
".
"I like to be with them.
"This is not the woman who married my father to raise me."Bill and I both have pet names for each other," she said ."."I called him a country boy because he was from a small town in North Carolina.
She started rubbing her legs repeatedly on her pants and didn't seem to realize it.Her palms kept moving up and down her thighs.It's embarrassing.I looked at my hand.I asked him what he called you."Of course it's the city girl."Pet names are a big deal for my mother.She gave one to my father.He gave her one.She has a bunch of ridiculous things for me like the way to win, it sounds like the name of a horse race, and-It's even hard to say it out loudPussy.
Did she go out with Bill rivers?When my mother rotated back to her desk and pulled an explosion out of the constituency, I was about to ask another question.To some extent, I cheated through French and math and finished my tenth grade.It's the summer of the water gate incident in early July 1972, and I'm very red because I inherited the part of my friend J --Do the timing of the transistor classification in a TV repair shop.
J and 36-15 years old-year-The old married boss, so I have been very cautious, but obviously this is not a must.One day after the store was closed, I got home and caught a glimpse of a serious conflict between my mother and the family checkbook at the table.She would sit there like that and stretch up for two or three days.
"Pussy," she said brightly .
".
"I need you to get dinner.
”Too late.
I went upstairs.
We seem to have more money now.
First, she sent out her shirt.
My father bought an Alpha Romeo convertible last summer.He didn't believe I opened it and it was stolen.It seems to me to be just.Also, we have a gardener every week, which is the main because when we moved here two years ago, guess who cut the grass.
"I'm going out," I yelled because I'm one of the teenagers now.But the fact is, the scene of her being locked in a chairTie yourself to a chairmakes me angry.This checkbook is a monster.My father arranged it.Double BinderWidth spreadsheet.In my mother's small and beautiful script, many categories are at the top and each category needs to be filled out with each check.
I 'd rather die.
My mom showed up at the door of my room.
It painted roses because she rolled up her sleeves and painted them with me, and because I no longer followed the rules of my parents, it was cloudy.They won't hit me or throw me out and you can't yell at me either.My father bought an Alpha Romeo convertible last summer.
He didn't believe I opened it and it was stolen.It seems to me to be just."I need you to go for dinner," she said seriously ."."Please don't do this now.Now I realize that my mother is very smart.
She only took half of the college exam and won't say why.But she talked about Turgenev, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Pritchett, Elliot, pound, Lacey, chihov.She reads books by literary critics.Something drives her through these pages.She said her mother was hit too.Esther was a third grade in Russia before she had to go to work, she was smoking in the factory with other children, bareEven in winter.
I can never read these books.
I don't want a doctorate.
D.
I was meant to disappoint my smart parents.So I do what I'm good at: hang out with boys, especially boys in their 20 s, with long hair, driving cars and drugs."I'm late," I said."That cheque book is stupid.We left, arguing for a fiction that we couldn't even name.
My mother struggled with the numbers on the clock when calculating change at Grand Union, left and right.But the balance checkbook is part of her job.She stayed there and poked the addition machine with the pencil's eraser end until she got it for a penny.
She is a housewife.
My father took me to his office the next morning.Nice room-Red Wall, cedar ceiling, deep leather Ames chair for shrinking and patient sitting."Relax with Erica," My father said gently .
".
"She had a hard time.
Later that day, when they were out, I searched on my mother's dresser.I don't know what I'm looking for because I don't know what the problem is, but I did find the answer: a small carton with a gold cover.It's hidden under the scarf and it's second-Maybe twenty red capsules are as bright as blood.
So I'm not the only one who stole from my father.A few hours later, I brought him what she had committed suicide and she walked carefully into my room."I'm really sorry," she said seriously. "You have to find this.She said, "I don't know why I had to store these pills.
But I want you to know that I never meant to take them."This is a speech, and she is over.She put one hand on the door handle and I don't know how to swim to her or if I want to swim."It's okay," I said.1947. my mother is 20 years old.She left the University of Miami and moved to New York, where she lived a rented life for a few months --Free on West 114 Street, in a building owned by her father Ulrich.
He has managed hotels in Miami and resorts at the Bosch circuit;Now he's in a wheelchair.He relied on the second wife who did not like my mother to feed him, bathe him and help him find John.Ulrich is also weak in other ways.He never stood up for his baby daughter.When Erica was young, her mother would rush into her bed at night, holding a hair brush in her raised hand and hissing, "stop.
That.
Until her daughter learned to hold back.
Esther's violence is as unstoppable for him as his own stroke.But he told Erica that I have compensated you, my dear.If I leave, you will be fine.So what my mother was shocked was that a few months later, when he died, she found herself homeless and was cut off.
"Because my daughter Erica Ellena made me unhappy in the way she recalled and understood," the lawyer looked at her glasses and wrote, "I left her 4,000"The legacy left --There's a lot, including the building she lives in.Go find her stepmother.This is a new will."She forced him to sign," My mother said with her finger.“Can I sue?"If you are already in his will, it will not," the lawyer said .
".
"This is the purpose of $4,000.
You understand?You can't say he took your rights.Thanksgiving Day 1976Erica is in her research, sorting out the papers, which in some way creates confusion that she can't control, which makes her very confused.Then her daughter asked her if she could take an oil painting portrait for her dorm.
"Please do this," Erica said .
".
"I look too tired.
There was a trace of regret in her eyes.
She's gone, but there's no woman in the picture.She added, "When I was a young woman, I worked as a model for the art student League."Really," said her daughter.She had an encouraging way of asking about Erica's story.
"Did you keep these jobs?”“No.
But I did pass by once and saw my portrait in the window.As she spoke, she slid a bundle of brown envelopes into a wine box from a manila folder and stuffed them into the right place.She did it as if it was meaningless paper reshuffling, not hiding a dozen unopened papers --It's okay-A medical insurance reimbursement check for her husband's psychotherapy work.
The idea was that she deposited each check into the bank, entered the amount into the cheque book spreadsheet, and rounded everything up.Bill, debit, credit.But she can't make things clear.So she hid the check like a squirrel.Her daughter is very excited.Of course, they all know the building.Beautiful French RenaissanceStyle, very high, highlighted window."Have you tried to buy it in?"No," Erica said.
"I can help in the kitchen.
"Did you not find the artist?"I don't think so interested."In your own portrait?Erica Kaka is in the flap of the carton.The label of donated clothes is printed on it.
She said, "come and cut green beans for me ."So far, this carton must have a check of $2000.She will start a new life soon.How can a person get rid of such a thing?Bill Rivers's story is a parasite that swims under her skin.
In 1946, Bill Rivers came to New York and studied for three years at the art student union.My mother started modeling there in 1947.She is twenty-One is without a father and expelled.She was as far away from West 114 Street as possible and moved to the townhouse where Mineta street crashed into Mineta Lane.
The apartment is small and dark, but the building is a frosted cake.She found a job selling Yellow Pages ads over the phone and used her ingenuity to sell more ads than anyone in the officebut-serious voice.She worked as a model in the art student League and earned pocket money.
The studio exudes a delicious smell of pine fat, although she still stands with her wallet when she sees that most students are male.Then the instructor saw her and said "thank you for coming to our workshop" as if she were a visiting artist.He handed her a folded white sheet and guided her to the standing screen.
My mother took off her clothes quietly.
Nude models for artistic purposes are not pornographic.She knows this.It’s a job.She knows this.She looked down at her body and was sexy and curvy when she was dressed, but probably not so cute when she was naked.Her breasts are beautiful, but the nipples are trapped.
A little pur at the prompt.
Her doctor said she had to drink a bottle.When the time comes, hello.My mother wrapped herself in the sheets and walked out with her shoulders.She is very good at posing.After the break, she is good at finding the pose again.
She is good at noticing from the corners of her eyes how these young people learn about her body, exploring lines, light, shadows with their eyes.Perhaps she thought that one of them noticed through his lashes when she gave herself a robe;Because she thought he was very handsome, she took the time to sort out the sheets and stopped to see how he portrayed her.He said that her sight was not blocked until the end.
Haywood Rivers.
Call me Bill.
He reached out.
Nice to paint you, Erica.
My mother closed her eyes.
Let me guess, she said.
She watched a movie like a critic and had incredible ears to her accent.After watching the movie, she wiped out her New York twang.One of the Karolina people, she said, was just the first time she had separated him.
It's April 1992, and Magnolia in my parents' yard is showing off flowers as big as a salad tray.My little boy was playing with the train in the living room, ignoring the story my father was trying to make up.Upstairs, my mother told me the story of my husband Bill Rivers sounds like it's over.
We're in her messy study.
It was comfortable, and that's what my mother said about a party by the fireplace.She told us he gave her a picture."Do you have a picture of Bill rivers?My husband looks greedy.He is very interested in Africa.American art—Very interested;We have started to collect it at a lower level.
He knows who Haywood Bill Rivers is.
“Where is it?"After we lost contact," My mother said, "I tried to sell it."We are surprised that my husband can't believe that my family will give up such a thing, because when you are so close to your friends, you will name each other a pet, why did you turn around and sell the painting he gave you?My mother went on to say: "I read that Harry Abrams has a large collection of works by black artists.So I called him.I told him what I had and he said, bring it in.
She knows many artists whose paintings are hung in the office of Harry Abrams.She now works at the Metropolitan Museum and walks through the gallery for lunch time.He looked at the picture, looked at her, looked at the picture, and looked at her.
"Thank you for your time," said my mother, and took her painting home.My husband and I look at each other.She knew the work was valuable."So where is it?” I say."It was damaged in the move," My mother said vaguely, as if a move had hurt the painting without her knowledge.“Damaged how?” I ask."I don't remember.Her hands swayed in the air, indicating that the episode had dissipated like smoke.
“How damaged?My husband asked.
My mother shrugged.
"It may be bad.
"My husband and I exchanged looks.
I said, "the painting can be restored" and the rest of the painting will be hung up --You're with the artist, you work at the museum, you know."Then what happened to it?My mother's hand floated out again.So much smoke."I threw it away.Bill Rivers's story is a parasite swimming under my skin.
Since the paper fell from her like a cocoon, he has been thinking about Paris.Half of the painters he respected were in Paris or there.Beaufort DelaneyEd Clark.Lois Mailou Jones went alone and she prepared some balls for a woman.
They often go to Stanley's house.
Erica is perfect.
She is a good listener and her wisdom sparkles when she has something to add.It is said that some black foreign artists are setting up a new gallery in Paris. he now wants to draw modern paintings and become part of it.
He took Erica's painting to Mineta Lane.
Do you like it?He really wanted to know, he said.He looked at her for a closer look at the intricate patterns, as well as a closer look at the light blocks and color blocks.This is the end of his figurative period: Church, aunt, handsewn quilts.
The portrait in his classHe knows.
I like this, she said at the end.
Having it means a lot to me.
Then, or at some point later, one of two things happens.Or he asked her.She blew it.Otherwise he wouldn't ask her at all.On May 1983, I called my news home.My fiancé and I took the phone together at the bright door of the balcony.We live in the French Quarter of New Orleans, and we are all journalists of The Times.
Picayune—He's investigating.
I'm a doctor.
He is black.
I am white.
He felt strongly that I should wait and do it myself.I don't understand his reservation.I am twenty-Seven years old.I love my parents.I can’t wait.I am ignorant.My father replied, and I told him, and he said, "This is the best news you can give me dear.If I hadpick my son-in-I chose him."Then I heard him go upstairs for my mother.
To my surprise, when I told her, she kept me quiet for a long time until I was upset.This is the woman that Alice Walker, Richard Wright, Tony Morrison provided me with books-Who took me to Broadway to open for the colored girls who were considering suicide/when the rainbow was Neff.I’m tough;I wait it out.Finally, she said, "What about the children?”I am twenty-seven.
I am ignorant.
What about them?"Anger and Knight, I said."We won't beat them.Bill Rivers went to Paris in 1949.He met an American woman with a bright head and a big smile.Betty Joe roberd had a master of English and a master of Fulbright, which brought her to Sorbonne.
She is white.
Imagine taking Betty Joe to Les Deux Magots, where foreign writers and painters, black and white, and drinking very cheap French wine.She laughs with others and she is funny and smart when she talks.He felt his art career was like a rare night.
Flowers in full bloomThis is the woman that Alice Walker, Richard Wright, Tony Morrison provided me with books-Who took me to Broadway to open for the colored girls who were considering suicide/when the rainbow was Neff.I’m tough;I wait it out.A foreign Painter said, is there any news about Erica?He puts his arm around Betty Joe, who doesn't waste time worrying about nothing in front of her.'We lost contact, 'he said.When he proposed to her, Betty Joe didn't ask what to do with the children?But because France has laws against cross-racial marriage, they go to England by boat in 1951 and get married there.
They had a son first, then a daughter.
This is a perfect brown baby doll, according to Jet magazine.Is she still in sobang?Bill now uses such thick paint in ambers, blues and muted greens that some of his paintings can't even be rolled up and shipped back home.When Betty Joe looks back at Paris a few years before her divorce, an obituary says she recalls "poverty, beauty and happiness ".
Otherwise he wouldn't ask my mom at all.
My mother has a chapter to talk about.
When our son was ten years old, she revealed this to me and I was alone with her in that comfortable, messy room.One day, after years of living in the village, she was walking in New York when she heard her name.Bill Rivers came towards her with a glow of approval on her face.
"Our eyes met," My mother said .
""He saw at a glance that I knew him.
But I snubbed him.
I looked away as if he was a stranger and I walked right past him."My heart is very painful, as if the person she left out was me or herself.For the next twenty years, probably for the rest of my life, I replayed that moment on the street --Stop the time and brighten my mother's face and Yum starts dancing.
Bill Rivers passed away on 2002.
I haven't found this for years.
One year before her death, when she was 84 and I was 57, I asked my mother a personal question, which was wrong."You often mention Bill rivers," I said .".My mother looked at me in a wheelchair."He drew a picture for you.You ate this.friendship.I have been thinking.My mother is waiting.Even though her hair was gray instead of white and her body was slightly thicker, she was still pretty.There is a feeding tube hidden in her sweater, and there is also a trachea tube hidden on her scarf.
Deep breath.
"Mom, are you close to Bill rivers?"I asked her nurse to give us privacy.My mother couldn't live without a nurse.My father was sleeping in the bedroom and his own wheelchair was nearby.My mother shot blue light straight to me.She said: "You will ask me this question. I am very angry.My father passed away in May 2014.Seven weeks later, my mother died, and a few hours ago, she announced the following in ecstasy, while I took notes frantically: "Leave me a message for your friend.
I accept the miracle in me.
I accept the pain gratefully.
I'm the luckiest woman in the world.
Paused, "I think one of the worst things in the world is cynicism.She won't talk anymore.The story of Bill Rivers is over.But my bill rivers movie has been playing in my mind all the time.It has two endings.Imagine this.Deep breath."Mom, are you close to Bill rivers?This year is 1949.
The vendor sells fish and fresh corn on the street and you can buy a suit with two trousers.Bill Rivers told my mom he was going to Paris.She's been waiting for this.She said nothing.He said, Erica, come with me.It’s Paris.It’s magical.I can draw. you can study in sobang.Anything you wantShe said nothing.Now her blue eyes are the ocean, not the sky.
Come to Paris, he said.
Marry me.
My mother said slowly: Is it legal there?He looked up and looked at her carefully.This is legal in Britain, he said.There’s a boat.After a long silence, she murdered every physical impulse that wanted to hug him, and she said, what about the children?As he walked away, she felt she was standing on the edge of the grave.Or he won't ask her at all.He told my mother that he was going to Paris.
She's been looking forward to this.
She said nothing.
I will miss you crazy, he said.
Tell me you will.
I will write, she said.
Don't express her feelings like crazy.
He said he would see me off at the pier next Saturday.My mother said slowly, I'm afraid not.He looked at her puzzled.Then he nodded and kissed her on the forehead.As he walked away, she felt she was standing on the edge of the grave.
There was only one painting when my bill rivers movie was played.My mother, twenty years old.one or twenty-Two is model in Muse.The portrait is nude.The artist is Heywood bill rivers.Because this painting is very striking.Its pattern was drawn from a quilt made by a woman in his house --Displayed in a window of the art student union, pedestrians on West 57 Street can see it.Of course, my mother is not surprised who painted it.
She knows.
They were close enough to the pet's name and teasing, and Bill Rivers gave her the portrait.Perhaps two or three years after his boat sailed, a common friend told her that Bill Rivers was married in Paris, not only married, but also married to a white woman, a woman, she got what my mother would call spunk with envy.This woman studied at Sorbonne University, she gave birth to a child, maybe two, and the same foreign artist she and my mother made fun of in New York with her sword pole Wisdom was a friend --My mother returned to Mineta Lane and stood in front of the woman in the portrait.
She told her that Betty Joe Rivers lived your life.“Erica!"The voice of Bill rivers that day passed through my mother's heart like a stake.Erica, he says.That's what she thinks he said.) Tell me, what did you do with a sparkling mind?Did you make the right choice?Marry the right man?Will you study at Sorbonne University, Erica?Laugh with writers at Les Deux Magots?Did you lock up your dazzling wit or did you write a book?Did you take a walk in Paris?Would you care if your daughter was the perfect doll for a brown baby?Erica, who would you like?Who will you be?On 2001, at my mother's request, I hid three boxes of unpaid medical insurance checks in our Santa Monica garage with the wrong label.
She estimates that there are $10,000 in these boxes.When we moved out in 2007, we couldn't find the box.My parents live in Brentwood right now and are close by, so I asked my mother if she had taken them away.
“Oh,” she says.
Her gestures smoke in the air.
My husband found a picture of Heywood Bill Rivers, a symbolic work of the early days of the country church, with a detailed choir in the attic, auctioned as part of the LadyHarry N.Heritage of Abrams in April 7, 2010It brought $5,625.I coaxed the doorman of my childhood building to let me explore the basement.
Incredibly, in 2012, people now live inPadlock storage room-I heard the TV by cracking.Open the door and see the shoes neatly outside.In the laundry room, the harsh clothes hangers disappeared behind her, as I had dreamed of them, as orange --The Blue Flame never burns.
After my mother died in 2014, I made a pilgrimage to No. 16 Mineta Lane.I still really want to live there because even though I'm 50 years old nowI will always be eight years old without a mother.The house in Mineta Lane is no longer pink.
Someone took the lantern down and painted the building white
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