6048. This is that house, the house where the girl killed herself. I remember they repainted it a few years ago—the worst combination of mint green and a sort of magenta. I remember her younger: bunched and gathered lips against her white, freckled baby skin. I worried about her—her father like mine, unpredictable in his anger. Her mother, big, soft and quiet. Her brother was a pervert. Weeds tangle themselves in the white picket fence like mold, and if they were touched, they’d crumble their grayness onto the dirt. Nothing is heard inside. Just looking at the front of the house makes me sad. I feel cold.
6047. There’s an old gray Aerostar in the driveway, and a dinged-up blue Bronco parked in between the houses in the cul-de-sac. I sense a strange smell, and it resonates high and deep in my palette. There’s a very strained friendship. Surprising strides, chapped heels in the wood floor. I wonder if they really knew God. Allergies. Carob. Green grass against white, thick legs. Strange discussions. Long and yellowed fingernails. Bitter tea. Awkward people.
6046. Warmth.
You gave me chills!