This morning I cry out: hold on! I’m on a plane again and I brace for the inevitable impact. I sit up in bed and I think about the one summer where she was a waitress in a luncheonette and brought home $10 a day in tips. Our refrigerator developed anemia. That was the summer when we were inventive with a hot pot, bags of potatoes and sticks of butter. That was a summer where I laid out all of our belongings on a sheet in front of a store on Thirteenth Avenue. Made in Taiwan figurines in the shape of children and galloping horses; that framed picture of a few stemmed roses in a vase — my mother was angry about the things I had sold until I showed her a small wad of dollar bills. For two nights in a row we feasted on chicken legs from the bodega. With potatoes, of course.