EMILY PRATT SLATIN

She/Her/Hers
Lesbian

Retired Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer, living in Vermont.

The Girl I Forgot

June 28, 2026—Stamford, New York (Mom's House)

Tomorrow morning the restoration work starts on Mom's house. I've been thinking about that all day, although not in the way I expected.

I've been here since Thursday, and I don't think Nora and I have spent more than a couple of hours apart. We've walked all over Stamford, stopping whenever something caught our attention. Sometimes we'd head in one direction and end up somewhere completely different because one story reminded one of us of another. We've listened to records, eaten together, and spent hours talking. Somehow there is always one more thing to say.

I'm perfectly happy with that. We met at John's Tavern a couple of months ago. It's funny how quickly people become part of your everyday life.

Since then I've learned we know half the same people. Friends I've had since childhood know her. She grew up in Queens before moving to Stamford. She lives on Crescent Avenue, just up the hill from Academy. We've probably crossed paths a dozen times without realizing it. It feels less like meeting someone new and more like finally meeting someone who had always been nearby.

She used to busk in the New York City subway. That makes perfect sense once you know her.

She doesn't just listen to music. She knows it. She hears things most people don't. A bass line. A harmony. A guitar part sitting way back in the mix. She'll put on a record you've heard your entire life and somehow make you hear it for the first time.

This evening she put on Peter, Paul and Mary. Where Have All the Flowers Gone. I hadn't heard it since the night before we moved from New York City to Stamford.

Dad had announced all the changes that were coming along with the move. It felt like we were caught up in witness protection. It was immediately following the appointment where I said no to an unnecessary medical procedure as a child. I don't remember much about the conversation itself anymore. I remember putting that record on afterward. At the time I probably couldn't have explained why. Looking back, I think it was the only protest I had.

I started crying before I even understood what was happening. It wasn't the song. It was that little girl sitting in a house she was about to leave forever, knowing things were changing, but not yet understanding what those changes would cost. Thirty years disappeared in the space of one verse. I had forgotten she was still there. The strange part is that I wasn't upset afterward. If anything, I felt lighter. I've spent so many years thinking about Stamford as the place where my childhood ended that I forgot life kept happening here after I left. The town changed while I was away. So did I. If a town remembers your name after you've been gone for years, you probably left more behind than you realized. Somehow we still recognized each other.

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