~The Houses On The Corner
My mom and I aren't originally from California ya know. I still remember our first house in Brooklyn, the first house on the corner. I remember the charcoal stairs that whispered to each other all day and all night. Hearing the pitter-patter of feet on the linoleum floors in the hallway. Sitting on the stairs of the apartment building like the little rats in the pipes. The neighborhood didn't look like much, but it was nice. You knew everyone, everyone knew you. It was nice.
The Vallejo house was a busy place. Four and a half months of children screaming, people in and out all day, and fried chicken 'n spaghetti. Lots of fried chicken 'n spaghetti. My mom and I shared a bed then. It wasn't uncomfortable per say, you get used to it. I seemed to get used to things alot; there was always something to get used to.
Alameda, the sanctuary of the bay. A quaint, quiet place; it was the best place so far. A brown building nestled by the police station at the corner. I miss it. It's the only place I miss this much. The breeze that envelopes you at night, the light from the orbs in the sky shining through the window. I miss it. It was just the two of us.
Where I am now is not my home. It will never be my home. Not the smog from the factory, not the dirty Bart station on the edge, not the metal gates that love to frustrate me. Nothing is inviting, nothing is comfortable, nothing. Just nothing.