I Lived Here Once

We had moved from the rented house in the city—a trinity of three miniature rooms piled high. Come to Glenside, following a six-month search for something freelance dollars could buy. It was a gray house with worn carpets. It became bright blue and yellow and red, and those were the days when the mail men brought me my writing news. All those passed over short stories returned. Those rare, few yeses that became more yeses over time—short stories with homes in magazines like Northwest Review, Alaska Quarterly, Thema, Crescent Review, Sonora Review, Other Voices. I'd sit on the porch steps with my knees pulled up to my chin. I'd write for the pharmaceutical companies, the real estate companies, whomever would hire me and pay. I had a child. I sat with him, studied his dark, huge eyes, danced with him down the hallways.

The train zippered behind us. A neighbor became a friend. Mrs. Wheatley down the street played the Christmas Eve piano. We'd walked to Rizzo's for a pizza dinner. We waited for rain and then we waited for the rain to stop.

In so many ways, I grew up in this house. And then we moved and started over, once again.