We used to live on this street. I moved in on Tuesday night during a blizzard exactly one month before Christmas of 2014. A friend gave us the phone number of a middle-aged man with a minivan, and I had successfully moved within the hour.
We climbed three sets of slippery outdoor stairs to the front door with a large crack across its window. The shotgun hallway divided the house in two, leading to our room at the rear of the house. Our bedroom door stuck because of the weight of the sweaters we liked to hang on the hook at the back, but we thought the stickiness added character. And we thought the same of the wood floor. It was slanted and warped from years of footsteps, so if any thing remotely round fell on the ground, it would immediately roll under the bed.
The best part was the window I moved my desk under, though. It overlooked the narrow back street between our row of townhouses and the next. We loved to sleep with this window wide open in the summer, so on weekend mornings we would blink awake to the light of the sun and the sounds of our neighbours playing outside.
I think a lot about the spaces I’ve lived in and the memories these spaces are credited for. I wouldn’t call it feng shui, but something is at play.
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