after three years. I removed
all of the spices from the
cheap rack and placed them
each into the tall white cabinet
in our kitchen. The one I found
in a trash bin somewhere and
you repainted bone white. When
I first moved to East Coast, I lived
in the attic of a lady’s home in
Jamaica Plain. She ran a nursery
(children, not plants) in house. And
on certain nights of the week, she
would go trash picking in nicer neigh
borhoods and would sell her loot in
the fashion of, say, Fred Sanford. For
the first time in nearly a decade, I now
live in an apartment of my own that is
charming, is airy, and seems grateful to
have me. Or is gracious, as apartments
go. I was happily walking my new neighbor
hood a few days after moving in, or, well,
it took me a month to move completely in,
but I was sleeping here as soon as I could...
anyway, walking around in a state of free
dom I found a short two-tiered shelf, with
simple black metallic legs and supports
for two square wooden planks, like new,
that now stands next to my bathtub, in my
very own bathroom; these are two typical
household features I lived without for
eight or nine years previous to moving
here. I wash my dishes in a bathtub
for the first time in my life, now, but at
least I have one that is mine. As well as
a cute table upon which my motley
assortment of dishes, pots, pans,
glassware, and silverware can now
sit, either waiting to be washed (on
the bottom shelf) or drying (on the
top shelf over a thirsty placemat).
