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upside-down house

You used to live on Sweetie Lane, which visitors call “Sweet Lane” because they don’t care much about getting it wrong, and they know no better. The road is a long and quiet playground for dust, and sometimes when I drove down to see you, I would almost run you over because you were creeping in the clouds.
Your house was white with a blood-red door, the pain chipped and then glossed over with varnish. It drove your mother crazy, but your father thought it was funny.
Your house was upside down. You would never be able to tell from the outside, but the format dawned on strangers who are brought into your foyer. The kitchen upstairs was manned by enthusiastic cuckoo clocks, and the kind shaped like cats whose eyes and tails moved with each tick. That freaked some people out. But not me.
The white walls of your bedroom were the canvases you painted on, so to speak. You couldn’t paint to save your life, but you spilled your thoughts across the walls in yellow sticky notes; you would write unfinished poetry, doodle undiscovered works, or jot down a note-to-self to plaster on the canvases bordering your bedroom. When the pasty edges grew dry, and the notes fell away, you never tried to reattach them. Their time had come, you would say, and then you’d crumple them up; your little masterpieces.




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