If The Stoop

I never questioned the origin of the word.

The stoops were always there, and an essential part of life in the City.

Their concrete steps were a staple for anyone who ever lived in Manhattan, either on the Upper West, Lower East or what was once known as Hells Kitchen.

It was where youngsters once shared skate keys before spiraling down the block on roller skates. And yes, it was also a refuge when we cried after falling and our knees were bleeding.

As we grew older, it was where we kissed our first beau good night while our parents (as well as a few vigilant neighbors) watched from upstairs windows.

If stoops could speak, their stories would soon become best sellers.

I guess the last time I remembering being on a stoop was the day I left to be married. I held my beloved’s hand and my Dad walked with us to the waiting limousine. It was also both an end and a beginning, both moments to be forever cherished,

When David’s gift arrived today, it resurrected so many memories of the life that abruptly ended after Covid invaded our unsuspecting world.

David and Mary Elizabeth, my younger sister, once lived in the Upper West Side, also the home of many stoops.

They shared the joy of life and embraced the pleasures of watching both sun and stars from a perch on the stoop.

Their romance blossomed and marriage followed and not long after, so did the hitherto unknown Virus.

First it claimed David’s wife, also my sister, and eventually his health began to falter. Still he continued painting, the passion of his life.

The canvas that arrived was his gift to me, his final tribute to his wife, and also a picture of the stoop where so many of us lived, loved, and learned about each other.

Another of the moments to be cherished,