The only place I can remember living, sleeping or being for any great length of time is 3527 18th Street, Apartment #1. I wonder who lives there now. Sometimes I get the urge to ring the doorbell, and not with just any ring. I'd use the "secret" ring. The ring I would use so that my Nana knew it was me and she didn't have to go to the living room, pull apart those awful yellow drapes and look out the window. I'd like to meet the folks who live there now and point out places in the house that are of significance to me for whatever reason, as if they would care. I want to take them to the kitchen window and show them where you can see Nana's name painted on the mural across the street.
I want to tell them how my grandma used to hang my underwear and uniform skirt out of that very window for the world to see. I want to tell them that they can't turn the faucet on too high or lock the bedroom door because Nana said so. I'd like to see what kinds of things hide in the huge closet. I wonder if they have 14 bottles of Andre, 2 gallons of olive oil and 10 packs of drinking straws, you know, "just in case." I'd take them to the green bathroom and ask them where the shag carpet my Nana put in there went. I'd ask them if they ever bring innertubes into the olive bathtub and pretend they are in the lake. I'd sit in the kitchen at my spot at the table, even though the table is no longer there. I'd ask them if they ever hear Nana talking on the phone to France or maybe to herself. I'd take them into the living room and show them where Nana used to play her records. I'd sit there by the window and remember holding Nana's hand when she died. I'd point to where she went to rest and tell the new tenants that the place is haunted with 35 years of memories. I'd chase them out of the front door. I'd double lock the door and then put on the chain. I'd peek through the little lace curtain on the glass door and make sure they were gone. Then I would sit in the living room where Nana died, curl into a ball and cry.
I want to tell them how my grandma used to hang my underwear and uniform skirt out of that very window for the world to see. I want to tell them that they can't turn the faucet on too high or lock the bedroom door because Nana said so. I'd like to see what kinds of things hide in the huge closet. I wonder if they have 14 bottles of Andre, 2 gallons of olive oil and 10 packs of drinking straws, you know, "just in case." I'd take them to the green bathroom and ask them where the shag carpet my Nana put in there went. I'd ask them if they ever bring innertubes into the olive bathtub and pretend they are in the lake. I'd sit in the kitchen at my spot at the table, even though the table is no longer there. I'd ask them if they ever hear Nana talking on the phone to France or maybe to herself. I'd take them into the living room and show them where Nana used to play her records. I'd sit there by the window and remember holding Nana's hand when she died. I'd point to where she went to rest and tell the new tenants that the place is haunted with 35 years of memories. I'd chase them out of the front door. I'd double lock the door and then put on the chain. I'd peek through the little lace curtain on the glass door and make sure they were gone. Then I would sit in the living room where Nana died, curl into a ball and cry. 
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