Memories of My Brownstone Days

I had not thought about it much, not in a visceral sense until the question was posed: what object holds emotional significance? It wasn't my wedding ring as I have no clue where it is, which I'm sure suggests something in itself. I do not possess heirlooms per se, but the watches that I was bequeathed from my aunt and my nana are both safely tucked away. So what is it? Although I never spoke of it aloud or put the thought of it on paper, I understood that a recurring theme in my life, in my work and often in  my dreams is brownstones. It rests there on the fringes of my consciousness (like the gray ball in Sula, only not as a ominous one) ready to be that devoted pup that sits at ones feet waiting for a command.

My stories are peppered with brownstones. Anyone who is anyone in my novels live in brownstones or has a friend that does. I love stories that have brownstones in them, or a brownstonesque feel to them and I love telling others that I grew up in one--four stories, all the original fixtures, claw foot tub, servant quarters, mantles and fireplaces. The look of awe in their eyes is well worth it. And there is the memory.

I lived in a brownstone on Putnam Avenue for nearly 20 years. Everything that formed who I am began there. Friends who have remained friends lived on that brownstone block. It probably wouldn't have such an impact on me had it still been the family home.  But it's not. I can't go back and slide down the banister, or yell upstairs to my sister, wander around the enormous kitchen, complain about how cold it is during the winter, stare up at the stained glass in the window when I lay n bed at night, walk through the block greeting my neighbors before I put my key into the lock of the black iron gate. It belongs to someone else now. Someone who painted over the memories gutted and refurbished them, bought them for a big six figures from a bank that already had their hand in its erasure.

But my brownstone is alive in my stories. I can visit often and I can even change the things I want to forget.