It’s a New York spring morning: hazy, dim, quiet. From the bottom of the staircase I hear these new sounds: wailing, then choked silence, then gasping for breath. It is 6 in the morning and my mother is in tears.
They loved Frank Sinatra and cigarettes and bell-bottoms and platform shoes and sneaking out in the middle of the night and being all kinds of Dazed & Confused. Absolutely brilliant.