hallway, childhood

since i bought my own house a year ago, i have flashed frequently and vividly on my own parents' house, now long repaired and sold since their deaths. last night, while meditating, i flashed on a section i had somehow heretofore missed: the hallway where our coats hung and the salt bucket stood defying all seasons. it was a wisconsin hall(way) - a slogged over winter mess, a muddy summer nightmare, worn old lino with a fake wood effect. i discovered, and quickly was shot down over, a love for tapdance on that hall floor, and when my brother stripped the old lino out and found beautiful wood underneath, the green walls simply had to go. orange highway slickers from cook county construction teams. slowly gathering plastic bag remains. coats from when i was a child: my mother's memory actively hung like a quilt not yet assembled in the form of my father's hat eight years after death, and my blue and purple favorite winter baby overdress in the middle of a sixteen-year-old summer. there were two doors - one at each end - never closed unless she was out of town and i surreptiously cleaned and scrubbed the worn floor and walls. a curtain we thought was natural til she died and it washed out to be white. orange trim. no light.