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My mother and I were at the dry cleaner's, standing behind a woman we had never seen.
"My sister and I are visiting from out of town," the woman said, a little louder now, and again the man nodded. "I'd love to stay awhile longer and explore, but my home—well, one of my homes—is on the garden tour, so I've got to get back to Williamsburg."
"My home—well, one of my homes": by the end of the day my mother and I had repeated this line no less than fifty times. You had to get it just right, or else the sentence lost its power.
The first dozen times we tried it, our voices sounded pinched and snobbish, but by midafternoon they had softened.
"My home—well, one of my homes . . ." My mother said it in a rush, as if she were under pressure to be more specific. (en) |
