Our house in the middle of the street

Our house in the middle of the street. Our house with a blue Wisteria and a yellow Laburnum. Our house was a brick house with a long corridor with a glass window.

When my father chased my mother they were laughing. He inadvertently put her arm through the glass. A lot of blood. I screamed my lungs out, five years old.

Our house had a small kitchen with a downstairs pantry. Storage of food. Our house with a patio in the back looking into the kid’s room.

I remember being two years old in my bed, looking through the rails. Watching mom wearing a blue dotted dress. My kid brother laying in the crib next to me, 6 months old. Was he crying?

Our house had one room upstairs where my parents slept in the summer. It was too cold in winter with ice on the frozen window. Then they slept in the bunkbed downstairs in the back living room. My baby sister slept in that bed as well when she was ill, with asthma. Our house in the middle of the street. With lots of friends playing outside.

To the left, a neighbor who died unexpectedly. When they found him his house was infested with rats.