Leni Wiener

The last of the creative writing inspired by Stories in Stitches at the New Rochelle Library is also by Sharon Latimer-Mosley and was inspired by the quilt “Market Day, Hong Kong.”  If you are close enough to New Rochelle, the show will be at the library until January 28, please visit and let me know what you think.  I would love to see your quilts and/or the stories that go with them.  Please email them to me at Leni@leniwiener.com and if you are willing,  I will share them with other readers of this blog.  Of course, if you don’t want me to share, I won’t! (But I would still love to see them.)

Here is Sharon’s story:

My son has asked that I join them in the United States. My husband is too ill to travel. My temple is here. My home is here. I shop here.  All things I need are right here. Dr. says my feet swell from too much water. Too much salt.  I tell him, I am 82 years old, because of me, he is a doctor. They can swell.

It is a son’s duty to care for his parents. It is a grandparent’s duty to care for grandchildren. Tell them about their ancestors. Help them grow. Children of today have lost sight of this. My son and daughter in law moved to the United States 7 months ago. Business. They will live there for two years. My precious granddaughter was born in the United States. I have not yet held her. They send me pictures of her by computer. Pictures by computer.  My neighbor’s son is a good son. He cares for his parents. Shops for them. Keeps his children nearby.  He makes sure I get the pictures of my granddaughter. She is so beautiful…reminds me of my mother.

Today’s writing comes from Sharon Latimer-Mosley and was inspired by the quilt “Outstretched Hand.”

Ahhh..…Peter…hadn’t seen him in at least 12 years.  He needed a wife at a time when something rose up and shook me- I wanted a child.  We met at one of those Museum Garden parties. He was the Assistant Curator of some exhibit. I was a sustained member. We became fast friends, best friends.  At 35, I had spent most of my young adulthood searching East Africa for a new skin graft agent. When I finally got it to market, we discovered it removed wrinkles too…Cash Cow.  Peter and I agreed to separate lives upfront.  I would donate to the museum, insure his directorship, smile, shake hands, pretended to care and he would give me Dolly.

Lives were private then. If there were whispers, we never heard them, didn’t really care.

At some point it all changed.  The business needed me more. So, Peter assumed the role as, what do they call it these days? Oh, stay-at-home Dad before anybody knew what that was. He changed diapers, wiped chocolate éclair from Dolly’s chin. He even taught her a mean lay-up.  Yes Peter was a Great dad…. Great dad. At Dolly’s graduation, he pulled me aside, said he’d found the love of his life.
Wanted a divorce. Don’t know why, but just couldn’t let him go. Wouldn’t let him go.

“So Mother will you come?” Dolly asked again her voice flat, reminiscent of so many arguments. She had been the first to extend a hand by calling. I’d be a fool now not to take it.

“All right. Where is this place?”

“It’s called the Empty Hand Zen center a few blocks from where we used to live in New Rochelle”

“New Rochelle?!” My back Dolly. I’m due for a steroid shot soon, the nurse is not on today and Joe is off too, I have no one to drive me there.

“Please mother. Please.”

“That’s 25 minutes on the train. I don’t know if I can sit…. “

“Just this once…don’t be difficult. It starts at 3:00pm”

I arrived in New Rochelle on the 2:08 train, remarkably my back still intact. It was a balmy 38 degrees in Manhattan. I had forgotten how much cooler New Rochelle could be, my bones ached a little.  The city was not how I remembered it. High rises poking the skyline. The K building was still there. Found that a bit reassuring.

The Empty Hand center was a small unassuming brick building, tucked behind a small neighborhood restaurant. If memory serves me, it’s the old Trolley Turn-around-strange place for a house of worship. A young bearded man with black wire glasses and in a black bib greeted me with  a bow at the door, I reached out my hand….”I’m Dolly Livingston’s mother.”