Day 8: That was then, this is now.

She wandered around the photography studio trying to remember what it used to be.

“This aisle was produce. No, no it was canned goods. Hmm, or was it the bread. I just can’t remember now.” Mom said, giving up on remembering the layout of the bodega from 1973. “We lived right across the street you know,” she continued, looking at my father and thinking about their first year of marriage.

“Yes, mom, we’ve heard the stories,” I groaned. “And over there,” I pointed, “Dad dropped the cash register when he worked here and it dented the floor.”

Despite my annoyed tone, I did find it fascinating that my parents and my sister all shared a connection with the blue tiled building on the corner of 32nd St. and Bloomington Ave. Of all the photo studios in town, my sister worked at the one my dad worked at as a teen, across the street from my parent’s first apartment. Of course, the building now is not like the Guggenheim housing art, it’s a studio where art is made. But, like the dent in the floor, the building continues to house my family’s memories.