Old House
Write about a neighborhood, the assignment said. At first I didn’t want to write about ours. It’s the suburbs, after all, that which confounds and conflicts me. So I considered Idle Hour in Lexington, where I lived from age 3 to 10. Or the High Line in Manhattan, neighborhood of the air.
After several false starts, I decided to go small, became a miniaturist, to look at our house, street and subdivision from a number of different angles.
Something like this:
–>
We want an older home, we told the realtor,
who showed us spanking new split-levels
instead of colonials with history and creaky stairs.
It was newish when we bought it,
but we’ve owned this place 22 years.
The windows leak,
the basement is full.
We found our old house.
