3 PLACE
Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say. — zo ra n e a l e h u r sto n
I believe that one can never leave home. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and dragons of home under one’s skin, at the extreme corners of one’s eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe. — m aya a n g e lo u L E T T E R I I I | T O W H E R E V E R YO U A R E
As I write these letters, I’ve often found myself imagining where you are. I’ve pictured your hands holding the pages, your faces even. I’ve wondered where you sit or lie; if the chair beneath you is soft or hard; what the weather is doing outside your windows. Wherever you are, I hope you are safe. This is what you should know about my home. It’s old. Its age—183 years—makes it both lovely and daunting. The red bricks have limed to a pinkish hue, and a dark green ivy is draped over its side. It’s tall and romantic and you should know this. But time has had its say, tucking secrets in every corner. The glass panes rattle in the wind, and the floor planks whine even on tiptoes. In the basement, there’s a room filled with rubble. The room has no door, so as you pass by it to get to the sump pump, you are witness to the dusty chunks of stone resting shin-deep in the dark. On the day of the home inspection, I saw it. But to everyone else it seemed no greater deal than the wall color in the bathroom or the shape of the kitchen counters, so I didn’t ask. I just stood there si-
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