Friday, July 30, 2010
My house is a storybook house. A huff-and-a-puff-and-they’ll-blow-it-down house. The roof is soft; it’s tumbled. There are bushes growing tall past the sills. A single sprouted tree leans in from high above the cracked slate path, torpedoing acorns to the ground.
Splat and crack. Another acorn to the ground.
Be good. My mother’s instructions. Her rules.