Yellow

We changed the colour and moved in after the widow died, and she had changed the colour and moved out after her husband drove his car onto a wall, on a Wednesday afternoon, in a quiet street. We did what we could to conceal our poverty, but you could easily count the layers of paint on the outside walls while we, inside the house, competed to find out who could spackle the most old nail holes before dinner. Who cared? On sunny days, we’d take our chairs and sit on the other side of the street to admire our new home. The first home mother and I ever had together. The first home after her return. The last home for me.