I had a dream the other night that my old neighborhood–the one of my childhood–was all dilapidated.  The house across the street from ours which was particularly stately was patched in the middle with mismatched Tom Sawyerish shingles and the roof was buckling.  I’m sure it looks as nice and pristine as ever, but as I walked the street in my dream, the grand houses were ramshackle, caving in, covered with makeshift tarps and unsightly Bandaid repairs. It was like a film of cobwebs draped the whole stretch.

It was totally what would never happen there on that perfect, idyllic, manicured suburban lane.  So what does it mean?  That I can never go back?   I have known that since Daddy died and we sold the house 10 years ago.  That it was sad, heavy, painful for me despite its beauty? That no house was as perfect as they seemed on the outside?  That we were not the only ones with the nice-looking brick Colonial exterior and the mayhem within?  Possibly but we probably took the cake.

I wonder who is there now?  I imagine most of our configuration of neighbors is gone.

Last time I drove down the block, about a year ago, I drove slowly past my house, as I do when I am in the area.  My front door was candy apple red.

Shiny, inviting, promising.