Goodbye, Momo

 As the last trace of Momo disappears, my thoughts have the same tinge of sadness as the weather. I’ve finally reached the point where I can walk past the corner it filled for ten years and am able to look at the shop that replaced it without feeling mournful. Today on the second day of its final sale, I think of going down to say goodbye but I’m not sure I have the strength to do that. 

When Momo first opened, its windows bright and colorful with the sort of clothes that had never before been sold in the CID, I felt a bit outraged. When I first walked in and found it carried $200 jeans, I was horrified. Where did this shop think it was, anyway? But as I continued my exploration, I understood; Momo was like a neighborhood candy store that offered Faberge eggs filled with the best Swiss chocolates--and lollipops too. All the things it held were carefully and democratically chosen to make every shopper at every economic level leave with a purchase that made them happy.

It was a revolutionary approach to retail, made even more iconoclastic by the welcome it extended to anyone who walked in. Lei Ann Shiramizu and the people who worked for her quickly made Momo an unofficial neighborhood community center. Whether someone popped in to buy a greeting card or just to say hi, there was always a spot of chat. Tourists were lured in by the enticing windows and left with recommendations for neighborhood restaurants. Momo's customers were often introduced to people they’d passed on the street for ages without ever saying hello, let alone knowing their names. Lei Ann was not only a “connector,” she was the world’s best hostess who made every day at Momo feel like a cocktail party, no alcohol necessary. 

I lived around on the same block as Momo for years and when I needed a small present, the perfect snarky card, a bar of bourbon-vanilla soap, or a bit of cheerful conversation, that was where I went. “Retail therapy” has become as big a lie as “customer service” but at Momo I always found both--and so much more. I found a friend. 

Well actually I found two. Years after it opened I walked in and behind the counter was a woman as prickly as she was beautiful. We clashed until we discovered we read the same kind of books. Now in spite of the cavernous age gap that yawns between us, I love Angela with all my wizened heart. She is a gift from Momo, in the same way that Lei Ann is its greatest treasure.

It’s a grey and gloomy day and all I want to do is go to Momo. I want to be in the place where everything it contains goes beyond “sparking joy,” it lights a goddamned bonfire of delight. 

Not only did I always find the perfect present when occasions warranted it, Lei Ann publicized my book readings on the blackboard that was at eye level just behind the counter. She sold my last book and gave it precious window space. She--and Angela too--trimmed ragged portions of my self-inflicted haircuts when I rushed in for approval. She was there when my mother died, when a sister and I were bitterly estranged, when the man I loved lost his battle against cancer on another continent, and when my apartment was sold, forcing my departure from the neighborhood.

Momo was Lei Ann’s art installation and she made it a destination point for people all over this city. When I think of  everyone it embraced and welcomed, and of everyone who now passes its corner without ever knowing it had once been there, I feel tears at the back of my nose and the beginning of a lump at the back of my throat. At the same time, I feel deep gratitude for all those years when Momo was in place. Thank you, Lei Ann. Goodbye, Momo.