The house I grew up in.
Red, rarely painted.
Surrounded by grass
and a matching fence.
Where we had that strange oven
to put our shoes on.
Having hot feet in the winter
and a wet floor where the snow melted.
Watching Finding Nemo for the first time
on that laptop I loved.
Endless hours of silence in front of the TV.
That morning he hit me over the head
with a wet towel
because we hadn't done the dishes.
The room that was a mess
except for at Christmas and Easter.
Always the same seating arrangement,
me sitting beside him.
How I always wanted to love tea,
but never did.
My cat sitting by the window spying on the birds.
A garden filled with snow.
The same seating arrangement,
but smaller table;
elbows forced to touch.
My excuses to get away.
Never being allowed in.
His weekend alcoholism.
And that one time I stole an entire bottle of vodka.