304 S. Van Buren

     There was this little studio apartment in the upstairs portion of a two story house, and from the reading chair in the corner, you could look out the window every morning and see squirrels running on the roof. You lived across the street from an old brick Presbyterian Church that had rummage sales on occasion, and since you loved rummage sales, you would watch from the window to see when the Oldsmobiles pulled up so you could beat the old ladies for the steals. The church had weddings too, weddings on sunny days, and you could watch bridal parties gather on the lawn.

            

     You think about this studio, like you think about the people you love. It had a small bathroom upon entering, and when you first moved there, you and your best friend (who helped you move, but left shortly thereafter for France) dumped your combined makeup in the sink and spread all of your clothes on the bed and took Polaroids of yourselves in matching outfits, smoking your shared pack of Camels, when you went out to explore the town. This studio, your studio, had a seemingly enormous kitchen with tall ceilings and an olive green stove and you couldn’t even count the number of dance parties you had there. The kitchen opened to a small room where you kept your bed, the daybed from your childhood (that you sold to a used furniture store for twenty bucks when you left ), your grandfather’s typewriter, and a small closet for your clothes. In this studio, you had everything you needed. You drank red wine from your grandmother’s Lenox china cups because you couldn’t keep them packed in boxes any longer, and you sat on the stool at the kitchen table and tried to write something, and you made friends with the fat neighbor cat, the only cat you ever liked, and took tequila shots one night, the last time you ever drank that much, and awoke the next morning in your bathrobe with your head in a garbage basket. This place knew the things you kept quietly to yourself, the things you believed to be true, the things you most wanted, and for three years of your life, this place held you.

Photo: sitting on the porch, October 2008.