Two Blocks To Nowhere

The neighborhood was my first grown-up neighborhood. Devoid of the college students I had been constantly around since reaching adulthood, my apartment was tucked in off the street. An attic in a historic home, you would go through the front door into a sizeable landing area. To the right was the main house and to the left, tucked close to the wall, was a set of stairs that climbed and turned, stopping at the front door to my apartment. The layout, from there, was inconvenient at best, but perfect for pretending the grown-up life: kitchen immediately to the right. The bathroom in the middle left of the wood-paneled hall. The bedroom at the dead end with plush lime-green shag carpet and finally, turning right into the living room with deep closets and turn-of-the-century wide door jambs which gave me my first concussion. Windows flanked the room which was kept cool by tall shady pines that also obscured it from view of the street. It was quiet and secluded — a feat for something a stone’s throw from the heart of downtown.

My landlord’s family owned the mortuary next door. All of the living room furniture came from there, hand-me-downs from the bereaved. Couch and chair that held loved ones’ tears also held my exhaustion and grandmother’s quilt. At least eight feet long, the couch was worn and gold and one of the most comfortable things I’ve ever known. Did grieving appreciate the comfort or take it for granted, far more important things using the space one would wax lyrical about an eight-foot gold slice of, well, forgive the phrase, heaven.

I rarely thought of where that furniture lived while I lived on it. I think of it often, now. Staring up between branches, I wonder if it’s still there, thirty years later, or if it’s moved on as I did.

There were lilacs by the fence where we parked. I remember how pretty they were when they were in full bloom and how they canopied over the parking space, dropping Tinkerbell skirts of purple as the weather warmed. In the back is the balcony nook where we draped lights shaped as peppers around the space that was barely big enough for two and overlooking the backyard I spent too many evenings in with friends. Friend. My friend. I lost her years ago and I miss her. I think about what it could have been, sometimes. If I had stayed and she had lived, would we still be talking, cheering each other on? Or would we have lost touch becoming friends we used to have.

It’s funny how many years can go by and I barely give a thought about the days and years spent in this neighborhood and how at other times, a siren of memories flood back, calling me to remember, ease out another scene, another story from another time. Two blocks that changed so much about me once upon a time.