The Big Livingroom
Mary Winters
A man said before World War II,
before the moon landing but
after the pyramids and ancient
Rome: I'm going to build a room.
Build a livingroom right here in
this New York City apartment that
calls for trumpet fanfare, says yes to crowds, cries out for your best
behavior and finest clothing and
banishes children. Its two-story
ceiling will defeat the longest handled feather duster ever and
that north wall window will be
big enough to let a tank in. The
room will sing of money: money to
buy the room, money to lavish on
furniture, money to fill the walls
with something other than snapshots of
a family apple-picking outing. You'll
need to hire staff to keep it clean,
re-upholster the grand sofas, custom
sew the giant draperies. Upstairs
I'll put two tiny bedrooms where
a woman could huddle frightened
with a glass of wine and her son.
