By Zachary Wallace-Wells

For most of my life I’ve lived in the big purple house on the corner, now blue from old age. I remember sitting out on the overgrown green lawn when I was young, gazing out into the street and watching the multicolored cars zoom by. I remember waking up in the night to the creaks and groans of the house and the quiet hum of the old washing machine, sitting motionless in the hall. When I was younger I used to venture out into the morning fog to climb the tall buckeye tree in my front yard, a giant against the grey early morning sky, from which I could see over the other sleeping houses into the deep blues and whites of the crashing waves. Sometimes I still awaken thinking about the weight of the old black cat on my chest, a reminder that even though things disappear, they’re never totally gone.

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