the smell of the kitchen; the steady hum of the refrigerator neatly underlining the quiet of the house. the front or side door opening was an airlock being broken; quick, close the door and do not let the year in. it costs a fortune to keep a house like this.

a house like this sits on a street with no sidewalks and nowhere to walk to. a ravine at one end of the street where the neighbourhood abruptly stops; behind the house, cornfields and then strip malls like cornfields, an identical profusion.

standing guard against the house, roses which for the longest time i thought were difficult to keep, but it was only something in the way they were kept there that made it seem so.

the mild blue of the sky that was somehow also a threat, like the look through half-lowered eyelids that means i could hurt you whenever i want to, i maybe don’t want to, just yet. yet.

the sound of cricket song, like some great thing inhaling and exhaling. the feeling of a place that would never love you back. the too wide streets, the too few cars, the no one walking, ever. something was always about to happen, and never did.