I'm gazing out the window at cries of children running down the street.
I see the children but it's really their cries I'm gazing at: children, running their lungs out down Ambler. The only window it could be is in my mother's bedroom. (My father's, too; but ... my mother's.) Except, outside that window stands or stood a huge cedar tree, blocking the view; and the specific vantage point could only be the pitch of Giardinos' roof next door, or even Ericksons' next door to Giardinos'; and the scene -- as present to me as Lyz in my arms -- is not a specific memory.Read More