There are never enough women’s bathroom stalls in the great temples of culture. The lines are long snakes that barely move. Sometimes women storm the men’s room after long waits in the women’s line. Mostly, though, we all wait, patiently or impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, leaning on canes or walkers, and idly adjusting the straps of our handbags so that they press different spots on our skin. Sometimes we murmur to each other about the performance or the weather. Kindness blooms for the old and infirm, who are carefully ushered to the front of the line. “I’ll be quick,” they promise. When people started to offer you this kindness, you demurred, looking startled. “Thank you, but I’m fine,” you said. “I can wait.”

            You always wanted an aisle seat so that at intermission you could jump up and hurry to the bathroom. I think you had an undiagnosed “women’s problem” that conveniently fell under the rubric of overactive bladder and was celebrated in commercials of happy dancing people in pastel clothing with shiny silver hair.

            No one knew the blueprint of the bathrooms of the city like you did. You knew their locations in libraries and hotels and in museums and schools.

            “Do you think they’ll mind at the Tenement Museum if I just go downstairs to use the bathroom?” you asked me.

            “No, Mom,” I said. “They won’t mind. Consider yourself an interactive part of the Tenement Museum if anyone talks to you. You’ve lived in the neighborhood for 75 years and know as much as the docents do.”

            As you aged, you gave up your second cup of coffee at breakfast. You drank less water throughout the day and no water after dinner. Still, you managed to navigate the city, your city, at warp speed until you were over 80. Even then, you wouldn’t move to the head of the bathroom line.

            The year before you died, you were 86. I took the bus into the city to take you to what turned out to be our last live concert together. It was supposed to Chopin, at one of the libraries. They gave these wonderful free concerts. When we looked at the program, Chopin had morphed into Ravel. Ravel! You did not like Ravel at all, and you were very unhappy. I like some of Ravel’s pieces, but that day I was sad that you were not hearing the Chopin you wanted to hear. Nonetheless, we stayed and listened, and then I coaxed you to a nearby art exhibit. After that, we had a sandwich at a chain restaurant where the food was too salty and the music too loud. Then you, who always took the subway and had many times visited multiple museums in one day, followed by an evening opera or ballet performance, asked if we could take a cab home.

            “I’m a little tired,” you said. At that moment I finally realized you were old.

            “Yes, Mom,” I said. “Of course we can take a cab home.”

            In the cab we caught, the classical radio station was playing Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1. You smiled as the driver drove us down the FDR. That, and not the Ravel, was really the last concert we attended together, unless you count the hours at the hospice when I played Rachmaninoff and Schubert as well as Chopin for you on my phone.

            You are no longer here to run around your city. I believe that if this city missed anyone, it would miss you. You knew its music. You knew its bathrooms. You knew its subways.

            I don’t visit it as often as I should, but a few years ago, when people were still happily arriving at ballet, music, and opera performances, I went to the opera. My seat was in the top row of the Family Circle. I could barely see the bodies of the singers, let alone their faces, but I planned to close my eyes and listen to the music. Also, it was unnerving to be so high up and to look so far down.

            At intermission, I stood and stretched and started to walk down to the level below, where there were bathrooms. An usher stopped me, a finger to her lips.

            “Go up there,” she whispered, pointing. “There’s a small bathroom up there that’s open today. It used to be just for staff.” I turned and climbed upward to a three-stall bathroom tucked away in the very top corner of the opera house. There was an usher inside washing her hands.

            For a minute, I wondered if she was real or if I was dreaming, but she smiled and said, “Isn’t this a lovely old bathroom? We just open it to the public during the first intermission if there’s a full house, like today, but most people don’t want to climb any higher than they already have when they’re up here in Family Circle. But, hey, if you can climb a few more stairs, it’s worth it to avoid the lines. And look at these black-and-white tile floors! I love them.” I nodded and smiled. She dried her hands under the blower, wiggled her fingers at me, and left. I looked around.

            I wanted so much to tell you that I was in an empty bathroom at the opera house. I had my choice of three stalls. The sinks and faucets were vintage design. The tile floor was beautiful. The bathroom even had a large window through which I could see the blustery blue fall sky, the skidding cloud puffs, and the tops of bowing trees. Leaves rustled past. I put my hand over my heart and blew a kiss toward the window.

            I said softly, even though no one else was there, “Mom, you won’t believe this! I’m at the opera, in an empty bathroom with three open stalls. I had to tell you. I wish you were here.’’

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