Things like that were never meant
for gypsies like us
mama said.
I had always been fascinated by architecture,
beauty of arches, columns,
decorative elements in homes, in particular.
I used to
draw houses when I was a kid.
make elaborate columns in crayon and colored pencils.
color in gardens of bougainvilleas, oleanders,
climbing ivy and rainbow colored roses.
I lived in my masterpieces.
They were more tangible to me than any real house on a real street.
Acoma, Ocotillo, Turney,
Baden, Jefferson, Roosevelt,
Taylor...Names of tucked away streets
where I played with long forgotten friends,
haunted homes where the ghosts of my past still live.
On Taylor Street,
I found my dream house while flipping through
an architecture magazine
I bought for a dime
at the Tolleson library.
The wrought iron fence with
its delicately forged roses
and vines that
formed an archway above its open gate
which invited me to walk the terra cotta path
that lead to the massive wooden front door—ten feet tall.
On either side of the door were two potted trees,
each home to a string of white lights
which would begin to sparkle come nightfall.
The door opens—
the warmth of the hearth,
embers singing, burning
living vibrantly and quickly dying
in the fireplace.
Spicy sweetness of cinnamon
and brown sugar hangs in the air…
a slight scent of basil and rosemary
simmering in a marinara sauce
adds a savory balance.
Candles flicker in their places across the room,
two in the corner opposite a heaven-reaching potted palm.
Terra Cotta tile floors give way to
travertine, marble counters, hardwood flooring.
Masterpieces—a Crayon stick-figure family
and two finger-painted dogs
lived vividly behind glass panes
in gilded frames
proudly displayed
on the walls.
French doors open
outward to reveal an outdoor fountain,
cozy dark wicker furniture,
A vast green garden.
Rows of climbing roses,
ivy, grapevines, clematis
sweet peas and lilies
and vines of juicy, ruby red tomatoes
—just waiting to be plucked.
A wooden sandbox full of toys,
sits among the blades of fluffy green grass;
a tire swing sways in the breeze.
A hand built
stage stands in one corner of the yard,
curtains drawn, just waiting for
budding thespians to preform
and an audience to sit--enthralled.
A family lives here—rich in love.
A family lives here and makes it home.
A home. MY home.
I tear out the glossy pages,
fold them up and hide them
in my favorite book,
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
For the next three years,
anytime I need to
hide
to run away from
my reality,
I take the well worn pages
from the hiding place
and unfold them, escaping—
I return to my dream home.
I see my children running in the yard,
pushing each other higher and higher on the old tire swing,
reciting Shakespeare and singing for me
on the little stage
I built with my own two hands.
I watch myself tend the garden,
even swollen with pregnancy,
I nurture bell peppers, chilies,
and tomatoes—
always tomatoes.
My faceless husband helps me to my feet.
Dusting the earth from my overalls,
I waddle off with my husband
through the French doors,
I carry a basket overflowing with the fruits of my labors
Squash--yellow and green,
juicy ruby red tomatoes
and fresh basil,
perfect for the night's marinara.
One day, mom and dad
tell us that we have to move again.
I understood why, but I grew angry anyway.
I didn't want to leave.
This house on Taylor Street was the closest thing
to a real home I had ever known.
I cried and cried.
I flung open A Tree Grows In Brooklyn
and sought escape
once again.
I unfolded the pages.
Only cold, shiny pictures stared back;
reminding me I was still
only a Gypsy.
Silly girl,
Gypsies don't have homes.
I tore up the glossy fantasy
and threw the pages
in the alleyway dumpster.
I pulled the rusty gate closed
behind me and
walked past the underwear hanging
on the line
and quietly slipped back
into the house.
