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Childers's drive had become an established neighborhood. The young trees, planted years earlier, had grown tall and filled out. Our house was in need of loving care after suffering from renter’s neglect. The siding longed for a fresh coat of paint and the green shutters were beginning to weather and peal. The backyard was still bare, except for weeds and the one lone tree. The only thing flourishing was the Kentucky blue grass in the front.
Our
furniture was carried into the house and set in the bare rooms. The once proud hardwood floors had lost their
luster. The woodwork was scratched and
the linoleum in the kitchen was dull and lifeless.
I
entered my bedroom and began putting my things away. This house brought back so many memories...of
Dad...of the day I left my mud pottery in the back yard to answer the door...the
three visitors bearing sad news that would change our lives forever...of Mom
sitting in the gold chair, her posture slumped in despair and shock...while I
had stood, transfixed, in the doorway.
It had been four years since that circle of time.
House on Childers Drive, here we are again.
