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TylerL.Stafford MalgorzataBakalarz IntegrativeSeminarC09 September11th,2013 201Garden:PortraitofMyselfinaBuilding Itookthetraineverydaytoschoolinseventhgrade.Lookingoutthewindowseachmorning, thegreensuburbanlandscapewouldslowlymeltintoagreycityuntilfinallythetrainwouldlumber throughthelongnarrowtunnelandpullintothestation.Atschool,Iwasshyandawkward.Butstill,I wasabletomakefriends.Smallandgangly,wewouldwanderdownthemainstreetingroups,loudIm sure.Inaschoolofonly30studentspergrade,weallkneweachother.Eventakingnotesinclass becameasocialevent.Tradinghighlighters,passingnotesandsilentlymouthingplansfortheevening weredailyroutines.Aftertheschooldayended,itwasnodifferent.Wannahangoutlater?wasa commonsentence.Beforelong,Ihaddevelopedasmallgroupofmyown.Wewereinseparable. Amongthisgroupwasmybestfriend,Loussine.Sinceshelivedinthecity,weoftenspenttime atherapartment.IstillrememberthefirstandlasttimesIwasthere. Afterschooloneday,sheinvitedafewofusbacktoherplace.Itwasjustafiveminutewalk fromtheschool.Asweapproachedherblock,Igrewnervous.Loussinereachedintoherbagand pulledoutasmallpurpleclothchangepurse,fromwhichsheextractedakey.Shewassogrownup,I rememberthinking.Walkingundertheshadeofthetreesthatlinedherstreet,weapproachedthe corner:ablacktrimmedstorefrontthatreadAdamDrum.Withinthelargeglasswindows,thelightsto theshopwereoff.Iexaminedthecorner:slightlyupturnedsidewalk,slabsofconcreteliftedbytheroots

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ofthetreethatgrewbetweenthesidewalkandthecurb.Thestorefrontandconnectingbuildingwere surroundedbyalowblackmetalfence,standingwithconvictionintheconcrete.IfollowedLoussineas shepushedopenthegateandwalkeduptotheresidentialdoorofthebuilding,afewyardsrightofthe storefront.Twogreyplasticgarbagecanswerechainedtothegatelikedogsonleashes.Sheunlocked thefirstdoorandwesqueezedthroughintoavestibuleandthenthestairwell.Thisconceptofhomewas sounfamiliartome.Walkingupthesteps,ourvoicesreverberatedinthedecorationlessstairwell.There werediamondshapedtreadsonthestairs,anoldbrownbannister,andthewallswerepaintedadark, glossybeige,coatingbumpsandimperfectionslikealayerofmeltedcheese. WereachedthetopofthestairsandItookinadeepbreathasshepushedherkeyintothe smallgolddoorknob.Theairsmelledofpaintandoldcarpet.Steppinginsiderevealedasmallliving roomthatcouldonlyhavebelongedtoherandherfamily.Thewoodfloorscreakedagaveabitasyou steppedonthem,andwereslightlypitchedsothatallthefurnitureleanedasiftryingtogosomewhere.I hadneverbeensomewheresounfamiliarthatfeltsowelcoming. Inthesmallkitchen,stringsofplasticorangeleiflowersweredrapedoverthekitchencabinetas ifagreatcelebrationhadjustended.Smallsquaresofplasticgrassrestedcasuallyonthehandmade woodenfurniturescatteredabout.Thewallswerecoveredinbrightpastelpaintings.Everythingfelt readytobreakorslideorgivewayatamomentsnotice,butIcouldnthelpbutbeovercomebya feelingofwarmth.Itwassuchaninfrequentsensationforme.Ifeltsad,asifleftoutofthishousehold, allowedonlytovisitbutnevertrulybeapartofit. Downthenarrowhallwaywasherorangeroom.Anorangequilthungonthewall,andthesmall desklampbouncedoffthecollectionofSnapplebottlesfilledprecariouslywithbeadshighonhershelf,

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castingafleshyglowovereverysurface.Justlikeinthelivingroom,thewoodfloorspitchedtowards thecentersothattherollingchairatherdeskwouldscootnervouslyintothecenteroftheroomifleft unwatched.Onlatervisits,Ilearnedwecouldaccesstheroofbyclimbingthroughthewindowoverher bedandoutontothefireescape. ThemoreIgottoknowLoussine,themoretimeIspentatherhouse.Minutesturnedintohours andevendoingnothingfeltrightwhenwewerethere.WhenIfirstrealizedshewasleavingforever,I wasalarmedtothinkofhersleepinginanotherbedthanherown,oreatingcerealonsomestrange couchwhosetexturewasntfamiliartome.Iwasanxiousbecause,nomatterhowmuchtimeIspent there,thatplacewasntmine,Iwasalwaysavisitor.IfeltlikeIdeservedtocallithome.Eventhough shehasbeengoneforoverfouryears,IstillalwayslookupwhenIpassherbuilding.Peekingupinto thelivingroomwindowisastrangephenomenonbecauseIknowwhatusedtobeinsidethatapartment butIknownothingofwhatitlookslikenow.Ioftenimaginewholivestherenow,whattheyve changed,andIsmirkatthisimaginarycouplebecausetheydontgettoknowthathouselikeIdo.Butit alsofeelsunfairbecauseIknowtheyllhaveanewcouchandnewpaintedwallsandnewdecorations, asifcoatingovertheeventsthathappenedtherebeforethem. Thiscouplewholivestherenow,theyknownothingabouttheclandestinecigarettesharedlate inthenightonthefireescape,theyknownothingofthefirstkissonthebed,theynevertastedthe weeklytooburntgrilledcheeseonaFridayafternoon. Yearslater,whenIvisitedLoussineatherhouseinFrance,Iwas16.Butassoonaswegotto herhouseandbeganascendingthestairs,Iwasthesamenervousmiddleschooleragain.Loussinewas stillmybestfriend,stillthesameperson,butshewasntthegirlwholivedin201Gardenanymore.

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Seeinghernewroomwouldntchangeanything,ourfriendshipstillexistedregardlessofwhatherwalls lookedlike.ButIknewIwouldstillmissthesmallplasticflowers,thecreakyfloors,thewooden furniture,asiftheseobjectsweretheblocksthatbuiltourrelationship.Ifthecouchthatwecriedonno longerexists,orthebedwewatchedmoviesonwassoldorgiventoarelative,thesemomentswerestill real,yetitisdiscomfortingknowingthatthesephysicalmarkersoftheirexistenceareinaccessible.But thenagain,ourmemoriesarejustastransientastheseobjects.Theycanbelostjustaseasily.Even thesetangibleremnantsofthepastwilleventuallyfadeintheirabilitytotriggermemory.ButevenifI pass201Gardenyearsfromnow,IknowIwillalwayslookupandpeekthroughthatlivingroom window.

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