She looked at me the way you look at a house before you decide to buy it. « You did the same for yourself. »
« I had help, » I said. « And a good lawyer who laughs at tyrants. »
We laughed. We ate a cake that tasted like a well-deserved little brag. We made a list, worthy of my grandfather, of everyone who had sat at my table that year. The list was long. It was like a ledger that had taken the form of a poem.
On the day the official put the final seal on this story, I took the long way home, passing all the streets where I’d ever felt invisible. I parked in front of my house and stayed in the car until the porch light, set on a timer, came on. It cast a small golden circle on the steps I’d rebuilt myself.
Across the street, a little girl was drawing a wobbly hopscotch pattern on the sidewalk with chalk. She looked up at me, as if checking I was safe. I waved. She waved back. Her mother called out, « Dinner’s ready! » The girl looked at the chalk, then at me. « I’ll finish it tomorrow, » she said, as if talking to herself.
“Tomorrow awaits us,” I said, opening my door.
On the dining table, the spirit level still lay where I’d put it. The air bubble had found its center, as if relieved. I poured water into a glass, took a long sip, and said aloud—not to pretend, but as a promise to the beams, the drywall, and the woman whose name was on the deed— »Home. »
See more on the next page
Advertisement
