EMILY PRATT SLATIN

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She/Her/Hers Lesbian

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

Crazy Emily's Closet

September 30, 2026—Stamford, New York (Mom’s House)

I did not make this decision when I inherited the house, when I started paying the bills, or when I began painting rooms and repairing things. Apparently, the moment I decided the house belonged to me was when I left my shoes and my favorite denim jacket downstairs in the hallway.

I am coming back downstairs eventually and I will need them again.

I still call it Mom’s house. I suspect I always will.

I have started making plans for the rooms. Mom’s bedroom will remain mostly as it was when she was alive.

My bedroom does not have a closet, so I have decided to annex the servants’ room across the hallway. Amanda is going to paint it, and when she is finished, I intend to put a sign on the door that reads CRAZY EMILY’S CLOSET.

There is currently one problem with Crazy Emily’s Closet: It is filled nearly to the ceiling with model trains.

The outside lights are still on at the Belvedere. Mary was pleased with how the community closed her bar in her absence.

Nora and I went to John’s. It was slow. Then Walter came over to sit next to me and Nora. And because it was late in the evening, Nora had already had a few beers and was relaxing comfortably at one of the tables. Walter talked about how he had recently spoken to one of my teachers from the short time I was enrolled at Stamford Central School. According to one of my teachers, I was apparently a gifted student, but I was also a handful. I started laughing because apparently my teachers remembered my antics, now decades later.

Nora and I started laughing. Walter, whom everyone at John’s Tavern refers to as Hollywood, appeared to have immediately gotten offended. He then let me and Nora know that my father enrolled me at the school as Thomas. I knew this. So did Nora. So does anyone else who follows my work even casually.

On his way out of the bar, Walter announced to everyone that I was born and raised as a boy and that I only recently announced that I identified as a female.

Walter had chosen the wrong venue because everyone who patronizes or works at either of the two bars in town has known me as a girl named Emily since I was seven years old.

I had even lived directly across the street from the bar as a child, which essentially meant that Mary Jane, the bartender, had seen me grow up. The bar erupted in laughter. He walked home for the night. The bar continued on as usual without him.

All things considered, I’d say it’s going really well.