Narrative non-fiction

You were always so worried about parking in the disaster of my driveway, always so worried that once your hand slipped off of the parking brake, you would still end up sliding down that steep hill of pavement. But you let your car sit there anyway as we walk around to the back of my house to break into the screen door on my deck. No one is home, or at least no one is answering the doorbell, and no one remembers that when the back door is left unlocked, someone else in the house left it like that for a reason.

Mr. P made the darkroom in the back of his classroom all by himself. Although the closet was once full of random art supplies, old projects left behind from former students, and other miscellaneous storage items that no one was determined enough to find a true home for, Mr. P managed to turn it into something beautiful. All the way down to the painted-black walls and the soft red overhead light that was more like the faint glow of an Exit sign, he turned that closet into something really beautiful. Enticing, even.

Newborn 981 in the Township of Brownsville, VT