“The House of Me” by Katharyn Howd Machan

The House of Me

has thirteen doorways. Each is painted smooth, and a small cat runs to and fro crying for food even when the dish in the shape of a heart spills over. My daughter comes to laugh at my flat turquoise walls, each hung with one framed postcard stolen from Bermuda before the hurricane hit. In my cupboard paper boxes holding pasta curled to broken spirals arrogantly taunt my fingers when I reach for one to cook. Come visit? I’ll hide from you the bedroom with its cross-stitched sheets, dark slippers I take on and off to walk the paisley stairs.