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This memoir begins with the June 8 post.
I'm no longer clear on time. Out of body. It's Sunday. I have my mother's car. I have not yet been to the doctor for my first check-up so it hasn't been six weeks since I gave birth and turned my baby over to Catholic Charities. It's sunny. They've opened the door at the end of the hall. Stairs littered with dust balls and debris curve up into the attic. I never thought about this house having an attic.
When I was ten the seven members of our family moved from a tiny duplex in the inner city to a tiny house in the suburbs. My sister and I were given the third floor to share. The ceilings sloped steeply. Only the middle of the small space was high enough to walk in but I could still stand on my tip toes and touch the roof. My twin bed was lodged under the lowest edge of the slope. The pillow end touched one wall and the roof was within inches of my forehead. The foot of the bed covered most of my closet entrance. My sister's side of the room had three little square windows all in a row. They faced the street. The bottom sills rested on the floor. The top edges touched the front slope of the roof. They were maybe 14 inches high. She could lie in her bed and look out. I envied her the view.
All three of them are wearing dark thick leather head to toe. Two of them have taken their positions in the stairwell. The biggest, tallest, heaviest one begins to idly toss a quarter into the air inviting the other two to make their calls. The one with multiple chains hanging from the applets on his jacket plunges his grimy hand into the oily brown paper lunch bag extracting handfuls of red capsules. He gulps them down, sneers and hisses his call to the coin.
This quick graphic drawn using Sumo
3 hours ago