'2732 Hope Avenue' by Debra A Daniel

• Leave your house before anyone is awake.
• Be a little groggy from the toss and turn in the dark overnight.
• Stop at the coffee drive-through and buy a large mocha latte of which you will only drink four sips, the first one burning your tongue.
• Wish you had sugar to melt in your mouth to take away the scald.
• Drive four blocks toward your old neighborhood, the one where you lived until you were six.
• On the first block, notice the lodge where a host of cigarette-smoking men all agreed that the catfish stew your father conjured was the spiciest and most delicious they’d ever tasted.
• Remember that he would walk with you along the sidewalk there under the massive sycamore tree and chatter-answer the squirrels scampering above.
• Remember that you thought he really could talk to them, how he said they wanted to know your name and if you had acorns in your pocket.
• On the second block, catch your breath when you see the place where your oldest sister’s boyfriend got into a fight, right in the middle of the street, how your father said that boy was trouble on a stick. Remember how your sister cried over the boy’s bruised face, swollen lip, scraped knuckles.
• Smile a little when you think about how his golden hair dipped over his brow, how he sometimes brought you cherry licorice, how you wished he’d be your boyfriend someday.
• On the third block slow down almost to a stop. Recognize the place where you stood with your father while he chatted with your mother’s friend who did alterations, how she smelled like peppermint, how her long fingernails were painted a bright spicy orange.
• Idle there while you realize you had never really realized her the way your father had.
• Turn left onto the street where you spent six years not knowing much at all, so busy you were with learning letters, numbers, making sense of words.
• Stop in front of your old house. 2732 Hope Avenue. 
• Find it surprising that you remember the address, the phone number, that there was a cluster of violets under the window of your bedroom. 
• Recall the front porch glider where your sister sat with that boyfriend, the driveway often empty of your father’s car, the way the fireplace never had any warmth, the silent mornings when your mother sat in the gray living room when she thought no one was awake.
• See the for sale sign and imagine what the house looks like from the inside out.