We were just reminiscing about all the time we spent on the front steps of our perfect house. (It was perfect, and it’s official name is Our Perfect House. And the Sloppy Jalopy lived in the garage. And the whole neighborhood played kick the can from our yard.)
It was a great front step. When I was really little, we’d sit out there, and I’d work on flashcards with Penny, our mother’s helper, so I could spell all the names and learn the people in our family (including my very long name, which was hard to make it through first grade with).
At the end of the day, Mama would walk home from the rapid that took her downtown to work. We called it the Rancid Transit, and it was my favorite part of the day, her coming home. I’d totally forgotten about it, about waiting out there to watch and wait for her.
As I got older, we’d still hang out there. She’d sit on the step and read, and I’d color on the stepping stones that led to the front door. They were gorgeous slate blocks, and they were always cool, even in the hades of summer. And it was our space, just ours, and it may be what I miss most about that house after all. It was a perfect home.
