I was five years old. Maybe six. It was the warmest day of the summer on Berkeley Avenue. We had just moved into the neighborhood following a brief year long stint in the apartment buildings outside the University of Pennsylvania campus, the exact amount of time my mother needed to realize West Philadelphia wasn't meant for infants. Not her infants anyway.
My dad had found a four story twin house through connections at the University's housing program, where my brother and I were born. Now a four story twin house in a blue-collar middle-class neighborhood didn't mean anything besides cheap rent for a young family. My dad had somehow finagled a deal that allowed them to rent month-to-month, just in case, my mom said. Just in case there was something better. But dad grew to love the house. He rebuilt the deck in the backyard two-by-four at a time, on his hands in knees, through the humid summer that hung on you like a wet mop.
The deck was our favorite place to hide, our favorite place about the house. I barely remember it now, but it was raised above the yard, off the first floor, and shaped a concave barrier beneath that led to the basement. Mom kept a key under a mat on the deck. Right outside the kitchen door. School got out early that day, and our mother had forgotten to pick us up. I barely remember this. My brother was furious. He started walking home and I had no choice but to follow him. He knew where the key was. It was right under the mat outside the kitchen door.
It wasn't. The door was locked. No key. It had started to rain on our walk. I hid under the awning of the porch and collected droplets on my tongue. Adam didn't like to wait. He paced back and forth on the deck, my dad's new deck, kicked at the beams. Stupid fucking key. And before I realized what the sound even was, I looked over. Adam's skinny fist through one of the glass panes of the window on the kitchen door.
I remember the sound the glass made when it shattered, sharp and piercing, louder than I thought it would be, like metal on concrete. I remember the color of my brother's blood as it dripped down around the glass and over the white paint like congealed pomegranate juice, thick and syrupy, with warm tones of purple.
Adam unlocked the door through the broken glass, kicked it open, walked into the kitchen and smeared the back of his hand on the Kenmore. I don’t remember why. My mother spent hours scrubbing the refrigerator, but to me it would always be red.
My dad had found a four story twin house through connections at the University's housing program, where my brother and I were born. Now a four story twin house in a blue-collar middle-class neighborhood didn't mean anything besides cheap rent for a young family. My dad had somehow finagled a deal that allowed them to rent month-to-month, just in case, my mom said. Just in case there was something better. But dad grew to love the house. He rebuilt the deck in the backyard two-by-four at a time, on his hands in knees, through the humid summer that hung on you like a wet mop.
The deck was our favorite place to hide, our favorite place about the house. I barely remember it now, but it was raised above the yard, off the first floor, and shaped a concave barrier beneath that led to the basement. Mom kept a key under a mat on the deck. Right outside the kitchen door. School got out early that day, and our mother had forgotten to pick us up. I barely remember this. My brother was furious. He started walking home and I had no choice but to follow him. He knew where the key was. It was right under the mat outside the kitchen door.
It wasn't. The door was locked. No key. It had started to rain on our walk. I hid under the awning of the porch and collected droplets on my tongue. Adam didn't like to wait. He paced back and forth on the deck, my dad's new deck, kicked at the beams. Stupid fucking key. And before I realized what the sound even was, I looked over. Adam's skinny fist through one of the glass panes of the window on the kitchen door.
I remember the sound the glass made when it shattered, sharp and piercing, louder than I thought it would be, like metal on concrete. I remember the color of my brother's blood as it dripped down around the glass and over the white paint like congealed pomegranate juice, thick and syrupy, with warm tones of purple.
Adam unlocked the door through the broken glass, kicked it open, walked into the kitchen and smeared the back of his hand on the Kenmore. I don’t remember why. My mother spent hours scrubbing the refrigerator, but to me it would always be red.
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