novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- harry baby, you cast a spell on me this is what i always remember when walking into my blue room, hand on an unfamiliar handle: my room did not have a door while i was a teenager. when i was twelve my father shoved his fist right through the cheap pressed-board door that came with the house, and it stood that way, holy, for a year or so before he kicked more holes into its lower half. i used to think of it as a giant cyclops with two gaping nostrils but no mouth. when i was fourteen he took the door off its hinges and burned it for firewood. it burned quickly. he forgot to unscrew the door handle before placing this makeshift kindle onto the fire. did i mention that we have an electric fireplace? after i moved to kansas city dad found a door at a dumpster, refinished it, and paid one of the mechanics at work to fit it to my doorway. i came home that winter to solid oak. a working doorknob. and a skeleton key from the 1800s. the first thing i did was lock the door, pocket the key, invite childhood friends in through the windows, blast music and paint my entire room dark blue.
i have lived with my parents for three-month stretches after that initial move-out. i am physically unable to live here for longer without having to breathe with the aid of a machine, due to allergens. one of the dogs, the schnauzer, is rubbing the carpet in circles next to my feet, smiling up to me and pawing my toes. i am re-reading all four of the harry potter books, taking about three-fourths of a day per book. this is exactly what i did the last time i was visiting. my mother and i walked the dogs along the seashore today. i hummed a song heather wrote about harry potter while the giant black lab yanked my arm down the boardwalk.
9:15 pm - 06.30.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||