The uniform buildings are stark and
institutional in the daylight but take on a dirtier, more urban quality in the
nighttime. The time of day determines
whether I am looking at a complex or at the projects.
Oil stains the driveway in a shape
that I always thought looked like a turtle.
I broke three teeth near the turtle’s rear left leg when I took a
nosedive from my bike to the concrete. I
have never been more grateful for the present stale fast-food stink of my
Oldsmobile than I am when I remember the intimate smell of my blood and hot,
wet pavement.
Ahead of the driveway, I can see the
vent from which the clothes dryers exhaust their hot, spring-morning-scented
air. Until just now, I had forgotten
about the time Jeremy lit a newspaper on fire and stuffed it down that
vent. It strikes me that I have just
traced my finger down the path of short-term memory to long-term; where
repeated retrievals transform neuron activity from bare, simple records of the
immediate to a more subtle recall that becomes vaguely associated with fear.
I came on a whim, but I’m here
because of loose sewer grates and faulty deadbolts. Here because of hot water spigots and bottles
with caps which click when I twist them.
Because of smoldering ashtrays and rat traps.
My thoughts turn back to the present
as I drive away, having resisted the temptation to crane my neck to see through
the kitchen window into the yellow-walled apartment that used to be home. It’s late and I’m beginning to get hungry.
