Deep in the West Village, there sat a townhouse. Vines slithered like snakes through the cracks in the red brick. In late April, sunlight beamed on the bricks, creating a warm amber glow.
Inside this townhouse, past the bright blue door, dust particles, which I once thought were fairies, flew in the amber gleam. The wooden floors were split, and many unrecognizable treasures hid in the wide cracks. You could never sneak out late at night like a rebellious teenager. This was because my father, from “the ’hood of Chicago,” slept lightly and was constantly alert to the creak of the floorboards so he could scold you. And my mother always remained silent by his side.
I would spend my time, the time kids my age would spend doing homework, staring at the skylight in the townhouse. I would reach up to the Carolina blue sky, knowing I could never touch it. The cumulus clouds (a term I learned from science class) would spread across the sky like a quilt, shielding it from this world’s horrors.
The patched hide rug was often intolerably itchy to my legs. To my delight, every minute or so a bird would fly by. I would get carried away counting the dirt specks on the glass, unable to focus on one thing for more than a fraction of a second. Often, I’d forget how to feel.
I’d lie in my wrinkled old school uniform, staring for what felt like hours, at the skylight in the little townhouse. After a while of marveling over the sky, I’d rub my eyes and feel almost ecstatic.