As for the other cottage, the one made of nails and boards, it bears little resemblance to the one Iknew not-so-long ago.
But I like to believe that one remaining straggler of the block people remains.
I imagine he’s found new employment as a door stop, his marker-drawn façade fading, the last relicof summers that now live in dusty photo albums.
And behind the fading ink of his lopsided eyes is the memory of another, much younger, me, andthe people I have been lucky enough to know and love in the house that built me.
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