A HOUSE IS JUST A HOUSE

We would sit in the blue two-door Mazda and gaze at the house my mother had bought. She was young then, around 33. I would’ve been 13, my brother 10, and my sister 3.

For all our excitement, there wasn’t that much to see. The house on Chester Road was set square and slightly below street level, an overgrown garden reaching up and over the chicken-wire fence. We had to strain to see the front door. There was a tiredness to the single-storey,