(Monday, October 28, 2013) I have moved into a tiny, cloistered apartment in the inner city. The walls of the room are covered with beautiful silk and the inlaid wood furniture has graceful, deco-style lines. The small bed touches the dresser and the dresser touches the narrow bookcase. There is only the smallest space along the bed with room for walking.
My two very Catholic aunties, Mary and Sue, have come to visit. They take a few steps inside the room. We look out one of the windows at an adjacent brownstone just a few feet away. The bricks have started to sag and crumble. A sad and impoverished woman and her small child sit precariously inside a cement balcony that appears ready to topple. Have I joined the sisterhood to work with the poor?
My aunties have come to take me downstairs to some kind of needle-working fair. They introduce me to the magical crones who have hand-stitched the most amazing headgear. All of the hats are formed of colorful, luxurious silk and shaped like giant trumpet flowers. Stitchery witchery.