Dear PT21946,

Your peach colored walls and flaked paint live in my memory. So does the slick tile and the bathroom pipe. Oh, that pipe that the workers sabotaged with rocks, because the company didn’t pay their migrant contract. I don’t mind, really, I’d do that same trick. I’d like to stick it to the man too.

The day your pipe back flowed and I couldn’t quite cope, I simply shut that bathroom door. My mother-in-law however, made of sterner stuff, took care of that. I’m still sorry.

I can hear the grating noise of the front door grille as if it was just now. It’s been 18 years, and that’s a long time.

I wish for a few things that are probably still in your cubby space. I’d really love my nosey face mug collection. If you know where my clarinet is located, send it. I’ll pay the international rate.

Remember the children’s giggles, and the Humphrey Bear tv show? Do you remember the piano tunes we shared to pass the day? Do you remember the shouting and shoving? You alone listened to me cry at night. You saw the broken furniture. Maybe it is time to forget.

I miss the sun streaming through your master bedroom window, the designer kitchen with the funny cabinets, my children’s shoes lined up by the door. I’m sorry we left in a rush; the children have grown and gone. They are doing fine, yes.

I hope the neighborhood is friendly. I hope whoever cares for you now does better.

Love,
Ruth

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