Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Shirlette and Tracy were my mama's get down crew, my godmothers. They “were”, which these days only precedes "just", as Placida would tell it. Time has eroded their friendship in the subtle way that missed phone calls, neglected birthdays, fist fights, and new men often do. This is my snapshot of way back.

    Tracy and I played tapes and ate quiche in her Murray Hill brownstone while Shirlette helped move boxes the day Placida kicked herself out of my grandmother's apartment.

    Shirlette was ill because she used to let me ride standing up in the flatbed of her pickup truck on the FDR highway on the way out to Ikea for ice cream. I was 8. She was a cop. We didn't tell Placida.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.