Laurie Stone at the Morton Street Pier in New York City, c. 1970.
Photo courtesy of author.
Yesterday, I received a check for the security deposit on my apartment in New York City. It’s done. I lived there for forty-three years. I have visions of the open road, except we can’t go anywhere.
In unpacking from the move, I found notebooks I wrote in the 1970s. The particulars of my life are news to me—who did I talk to, where did I go? Everything is news except the hand . . .
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