Christina’s house reminds me of my own, its largeness, its loneliness. We live in subdivisions consisting of expansive lots, obedient gardens, homes in need of Jenny Craig. You can’t walk anywhere from here. By the time you get out of the door, down the driveway, and to the neighbor’s house, you’re already pallid from the heat and dripping sweat from your forehead to the tip of your nose.
I wipe my own face with the knob between my thumb and wrist. I understand how Petey must have felt in his own cage, bouncing himself against subtly colored walls, squawking to the audience of his own ears.
Where does this wild ebony vortex originate? Do the exquisite coifs of slender women cringe behind each filmy curtain in our neighborhoods, howling door to stained-glass door with isolation? Is this what drove Nails to seek distraction? Was the untidy shards of our family less painful than facing the silence?
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