14 Grange Ave. Toronto, Ontario. I lived here until I was 9 years old.
I had never before noticed this crack in the staircase. It must have gotten worse as time went on. My brother said that our dad always wanted to fix it.
The squirrels and our old Chinese neighbours would always eat the cherries off of this tree.
The front door. We hardly used it.
We knew it was a stranger at our door when they would knock on this one.
The side door. This is the one we used almost always.
When we lived there our dad would get rid of the graffiti.
And I saw this almost everyday.
I love my mom. I cannot help but see her in other people. I cannot help but look at strangers, sometimes homeless ones, and think and know, that is someone's mom.
But our mom isn't homeless, not anymore.
But our mom isn't homeless, not anymore.
I have a story, just like everyone else. And I guess I wouldn't have mine any other way, no matter the pain and the growth and the realness and rawness of a child with parents who did the best they could.
5 reactions.:
did you delete my comment......? did I say something wrong?
whoa!
it must not've worked when you left it. Because it only emailed me when you left that comment, just once.
what did you say??
oh weird. hm nothin much. musing on about how not everybody has a story, sometimes people grow up and everything goes off without a hitch. And that in a way, it's better to have stories, no matter how they go, because stories are important. Um, they are the reference material of your soul.
you know, I think most everyone seems to have a story.
I'd like to think that, and I'm sure those with less crazy stuff going in theirs would like to think that, too.
I guess I think that even really straightforward and simple stories are stories, too.
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