Whenever I come to this city and drive around the neighborhood, I imagine myself living here. In one of these brownstones. I let my imagination wander.
There was a death in the family next door , so the house came on the rental market. Lucky. Perhaps.
May be that is not the story. But it is my imagination. If I want to imagine a townhome as fictional as this, it is indeed my prerogative.
The little townhome stood on a side street protected by one-way signs and no-turn signs right-off a main throughfare. Like all those places, it was non-descript. There was nothing that told that house or that street apart from any other.
There was an Ethiopian eatery within walking distance. Perhaps a laundromat. A twenty-four hour convinience store, a florist, a store selling hardware things and electrical components, a chinese grocery; a neighborhood. In the dark ethnic restaurant people sat around talking to each other as if it is a living room and service is just casual to the itinerant hungry person.
The house itself stood slightly raised from the ground. Perhaps the first floor is locked up or occupied by the landlady. On the second floor, there was a regular bedroom and a living room crowded with computer wires. The bathrom was small and the tub was covered on three sides by curtains. From the bathroom, one could see a small patch of green in the backyard. Beyond that, other houses.
On the roof, a secret opened up. A small table and two chairs. A private smoking den. A sliver of the sky. A three dimensional place to mourn, lament and laugh.
Houses come in different colors and shapes. They come with room to share and room to spare. This was a purpose. A calling.
If I needed a place to hide from my sorrows and find myself, perhaps it is here.
The fortune cookie said:' to you values in life are more important than wealth' -- True but sad. There is a whole life to live on this side of the fortune cookie literature.
The sliver in the sky just got smaller and died. I woke up.
Never a good idea to dream while one is driving.
