No Place Like Home.

Because there really is NO PLACE like home….

Greet Grief

Two steps up to a small concrete porch with a wrought-iron railing, you enter an arched door leading into the front hallway.  The living room and dining room is the entire length of our cream-city brick house on 91st Street.  Wooden built-in china cabinets flank the side window of the dining room, and a chandelier hangs from the ceiling.  Cleaning the one hundred and one tear-drop crystals and the lamp’s flame-shaped bulbs is my job every year before Thanksgiving.

We have two octagon windows in our upstairs bedroom that we three girls share. When my sisters leave home, it feels like a luxurious dormitory with its bathroom, walk in closet, attic and privacy from my parents.  Soothing shades of blue and green, replace the old black with pink peacock wallpaper (I’m not kidding) that was here originally.

The basement is home to an old piano, our Barbie doll house…

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Mousie Accepts Crackers, Hugs, Applause, Visa, and MasterCard. C J Prefers To Know What You Thought About This Post

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