There's a house down the street.
It's old, with chipping mint green paint and a dusty
screen door.
In the back is a tree that offers
sweet peaches. Every
bright
summer.
The rusty metal grate is never closed,
Roses and Fourth of July planted in kindergarten
are in full bloom,
but beware thorns.
The porch is rich with warm, and on it, a bench
for sweet afternoon naps.
The first time I enter, there's a cacophony
of barking.
Laughter.
Squealing.
My brother is playing his PlayStation.
My mother is out back, planting flowers.
And my sister and I are chasing our dog.
This is the only house I've ever loved.
The only place where I belonged.
Out on those warm, summer nights,
I would lift the window
and crawl on the roof shingles with bare feet.
Far away, I could see the Quest building in
the city.
And dream if a life full of pink sports cars and designer glasses.
It wasn't the most appealing neighborhood.
Every few minutes, a train down the street would disrupt the peace.
But that was my kingdom,
I was its queen.
With my pink princess bike,
And my Hello Kitty helmet,
I could do anything, go anywhere,
be anyone.
My only weapon: my imagination.