Remembering Where I Used to Be

Mammam Dando’s chameleon moved unseen among the leaves at the window and the lace curtains. Invented stories and wooden blocks busied me. Mom would close the bedroom door to keep me out while she cleaned the bed.

I don’t remember the bathroom.

I don’t remember the room off the kitchen.

I do remember the living room where I played on the floor near the broken TV. Above the bristly green couch was “Christ In The Garden Of Gethsemane.” The linoleum near the wall looked like wood and the carpet was worn to the backing in a path that rounded the coffee table. Everything was old but everything was clean.

I only ever had one cap gun, but she called me “Two Clicks.” A good name, even next to “Buckles and Bears,” the uniformed cop that often visited for reasons that only now prompt conjecture. The woman from upstairs had no teeth; I don’t remember her name – or her nickname. It wasn’t Mable – Mable and Red were her other friends that lived on Sunbury street. The woman from upstairs would often sit on the steps just outside the apartment door in the large foyer where it always felt cool. My mother would stop to talk and their voices would bounce off the high tin ceiling. I’d look out the door to Tom Olsey’s Pharmacy where the people behind the counter knew my name.

I don’t remember Mammam ever out of bed.

I don’t remember ever staying very long.