My heels clicked against the sidewalk with a growing impatience. My old house was on this street, and I longed to see it again. I was utterly lost in my thoughts, running its number –1938– through my mind over and over, tracing in my thoughts the winding loop of the 8 over and over into infinity. It was in this state that I nearly missed the house when it seemed to spring up from the sidewalk beside me. It loomed imposing as a mountain or fortress, the way it had looked to me when I had stood only a foot tall. The windows exposed the home’s innards, her beating heart, and anyone who stood wayside could play the voyeur. Orange light spilled out of the windows, and every curtain and blind was drawn aside because the house wanted to be seen in her state of majesty. 

The window into the living room revealed a couch I did not recognize nor appreciate, but I could see past it the open door to the kitchen. In the kitchen there would be three chairs around a table, and two places would be set, though angled imperfectly, with little fingerprints on the utensils. Black smoke filling the kitchen would signify that dinner was almost ready, and any moment now someone would have to rush to the living room window to pry it open with the broken handle, and the other would have to fan the smoke alarm. And then we’d laugh about it, and the food would taste smoky but good, maybe better for all the trouble. Dad would joke that he likes smoke anyway, and that’s well attested to. 

Behind the frosted glass next to the front door there would be an old cat circling around the legs of a little table, and on that table would be a porcelain jar with an angel on it. It’s the only place in the house where it’s ever been displayed, though it might look better on the mantle. Though the cat liked to sleep next to the door, she’d never bolt; she didn’t want to leave the house, she was smart enough to know she’d be taken care of in here. I’d pass the cat and the jar on my way out to play with my friends after dinner, but even when playing across the street I could see my father in the window, bathed in golden light from behind like a tired suburban angel, doing home repairs or reading the newspaper by the light of the lamp. The bulb would still be warm by the time I got home, and it would still be warm today. If only I could reach out and touch it. 

A shadow appeared in the living room window, looking down upon me with a shrouded face. I looked up at the figure as though seeing her through a darkened glass, and I wondered if she was my mother, calling me in after a long day at school, but with a moment of focus, I saw the woman clearly. She was lit from behind in the orange light as my father had been often. Her lips were downturned in an expression of confusion or discomfort. All my memories fell away as I understood her gaze. My part in the building’s history was imperceivable to her, I was a mere intruder of her peace and property, and indeed I was alien to the building itself. All of my memories of the place seemed now as if they had never occurred, for they certainly never impressed themselves upon the unfeeling structure. 

Hesitantly, I turned away from the house and the woman in the window, and continued walking down the sidewalk in the likeness of someone who only felt a passing curiosity about decoration or architecture or people.