Читать книгу Dear Prudence - David Trinidad - Страница 16

9773 COMANCHE AVE.

In color photographs, my childhood house looks

fresh as an uncut sheet cake—

pale yellow buttercream, ribbons of white trim

squeezed from the grooved tip of a pastry tube.

Whose dream was this confection?

This suburb of identical, pillow-mint homes?

The sky, too, is pastel. Children roller skate

down the new sidewalk. Fathers stake young trees.

Mothers plan baby showers and Tupper ware parties.

The Avon Lady treks door to door.

Six or seven years old, I stand on the front porch,

hand on the decorative cast-iron trellis that frames it,

squinting in California sunlight,

striped short-sleeved shirt buttoned at the neck.

I sit in the backyard (this picture’s black-and-white),

my Flintstones playset spread out on the grass.

I arrange each plastic character, each dinosaur,

each palm tree and round “granite” house.

Half a century later, I barely recognize it

when I search the address on Google Maps

and, via “Street view,” find myself face to face—

foliage overgrown, facade remodeled and painted

a drab brown. I click to zoom: light hits

one of the windows. I can almost see what’s inside.