by Ann Votaw, C.H.E.S., M.A. in Health Education
Like the two-headed Roman God Janus – January’s namesake – I am looking forward and back, embracing my shiny graduate degree and new apartment while remembering a loveseat I abandoned in March, a piece of furniture inherited from my grandparents.
I named her Mary because she deserved a secure name. Having lived through two Iraq Wars and at least one potty training accident back in Indiana, Mary was made of solid materials: square cushions, embroidered upholstery, and a no-nonsense dust ruffle.
After nine years in New York City, shuffling dance jobs and sublets, I compare myself to Mary, made of all the right stuff but involved with all the wrong people.
One roommate, an actor, punched two holes through his door in Queens, angry he wasn’t on Broadway at age 23. Another roommate married the neighbor for a Green Card and staged wedding photos in our Washington Heights living room. In the Bronx, my super’s extended family lived, illegally, in the boiler room, near my roach-infested ground floor apartment.
But Mary anchored me, like one impressive line on a resume. While I had moved to New York to reinvent myself, Mary’s presence reminded me of my family whose help was near. From the spirit world, my beloved Grandpa Votaw sat on Mary’s right arm, offering his rural critique. “That person is a such and such,” he would say about an abusive manager or fair weather friend.
In 2011, after a long winter of no hot water in the Bronx, I found my current apartment overlooking a stretch of Northern Manhattan woods. Inwood is perfect, but Mary didn’t fit into the moving van or anyone’s Craigslist dreams.
As a last ditch effort, I called my old super who wanted her for free. It was Mary’s best offer. I returned to spot clean the floors and photograph Mary, who resembled the subject of a Victorian funeral portrait. The room, that had been my universe, appeared small and hungry in the light of a single light bulb. Its decayed baseboards had the shadowy look of a battered child with Mary as a responsible aunt. I swept the floor around her, took one last look, and locked the door.