Our Views Of The Past Change As We Mature

I grew up on the corner of 8th and Aspen, which really is a silly name for a street that obviously grew only Birch trees. I'd like to think that it was named as such to evoke an idea of mountain resorts, which too would be ironic; a street with brass cages fencing in vile lawns, each spanning the length of a car. My house grew straight up; almost all of its area was stairs, my room being at the top of them. The advantage of the climb up to my own room was the view it gave of the road. I liked to pretend that I was a spy, that I could watch persons go about their day without their ever knowing. Back then I was young and naïve, interested only in the man who was clearly up to no good, dog napping the black standard poodle that strained on its lead.

Jackie Thomas was my best friend. Jackie Thomas was the same age as me, with matted red hair and a drawn on smile. When I was two I tried to feed her cherries and her mouth is still curiously stained purple. Jackie Thomas was a rag doll.

I didn't understand it then, what my mother did between the hours of 6pm and 2am. All I knew was that she wasn't home, and when she did return, she was tired, no longer hungry and could afford new toys. Sometimes Momma would stay home, but I had to be locked up in my room until she said so. I always thought it was a game, pretending that I was Cinderella, locked away from Prince Charming. The men that left the house just before Momma would come get me never resembled Prince Charming. They were old and graying, confused and excited.

I never had social difficulties, I hadn't attended school. I'd once walked past with Jackie Thomas and someone had yelled,

"It's no wonder you don't have a Dad, he could be anyone in the city!"

I never felt the need to return there. The paint was chipping, the doors no longer hung properly and the playground was only a basketball court without intact hoops.

Of course I was ashamed, of course I cried, soaking Jackie Thomas' red hair. But I never questioned my mother.

I no longer live on the corner of 8th and Aspen. I live on much more honest streets, 240th and 10th. My yard is modest, and without any metal. This house seems to be content to grow outward and there is no spy tower. Momma phoned once, I scolded her for the cost. Somewhere during the shallow conversation, I realized that my mother was the most brave, selfless person I had ever known. Tears cut my cheeks, but I said nothing to her and she'd never asked for acknowledgment.