Coffee with the Great Matron:

Her house smelled like what I later came to know as “old people smell.” but I never thought of my great grandmother as being old. She was just… matronly. The carpet in her house was green like split pea soup. There was a woman laying in bed, in the room nearest the front door.…

The Tile Room:

There was a man who lived in the studio below my great grandmother’s home. The tile floor was covered with packing boxes. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger. I remember this man in this room… I never spoke to him, yet this room will become a recurring location in my tale.…

Injury 01:

In the palm tree lined split lane driveway in front of home, I was riding my red metal tricycle. The pedals were white, and made of plastic. Mother cheered me on from the narrow concrete porch. The apartment was covered in a tan stucco-like materiel. Father wore a shirt with broad horizontal stripes, and stood behind me and to my right.…

The Bubble Pipe Incident:

I was looking through the screen door, into that dark room I knew of as home as I contemplated my plastic bubble toy, which was shaped like a tobacco pipe. Mother had said “Blow, don’t suck” but I had seen Father and his pipe. I knew how it worked. Clearly, Mother did not understand.…

First:

The room had a womb-like darkness that I have grown to associate with places people call home. The front window was covered by a blanket, which acted as makeshift draperies. In the dim lighting, I couldn’t make out it’s color or pattern well enough to recall it now. Behind me was furniture I alternately remember as a bed or a couch.…