The Apartment on the Fourth Floor

As a kid my mom and I moved around a lot – so it took me a few minutes to figure out where I was at 12. We lived in an old apartment. Just down the hill from my school. The building had no elevator, which made climbing up the 70’s carpeted stairs everyday was a workout. When I say 70’s, I mean 70’s. Swirls of bright orange and red. In an almost paisley pattern, it was alarming to look at. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. My mom and I lived here together for over 5 years. Our apartment was kind of a coveted place to be. See, my mom was the cool parent in town. She trusted my judgment. Since I usually took on the role of babysitter for all of my dysfunctional friends, she knew I wouldn’t get into much trouble.

The apartment was small. Fitting for the two of us, really. In our living room, only a desk, one small love seat and a TV in front of the couch. My room shared a wall with my moms. Completed with a desk, a twin bed on the floor and an overflowing bookcase – my room was a piece of heaven away from the world. This apartment was the place I laid in my mom’s bed and watched Dawson’s Creek every morning before I went to school. Where by morning I read from books and by night I read the sky. This is where I had my first love, my first joint and my first slice of euphoria. This was my home. Until we left in search of a new home.