the condominium

I remember a few significant things about the condominium where I was raised.

  1. Its front door faced East. The peephole made a prism that cast a rainbow dot on the wall of the stairs that led to the second story. In the early mornings this was magical to behold and I would stand there on the blue carpeted stairs for as long as my grandmother would allow me to, tracing the matte-rough white paint around that rainbow circle, peering at its colors as the sun moved over time, watching the shadows of my fingers moving over it.  
  2. The black wrought iron hand railing was magical, too, for similar reasons. The artfully twisted metal that made up its first three bars felt fantastic against my face. My grandmother always swore I would get my head stuck between them but I never did.
  3. The carpeting wasn’t always blue. Sometime earlier than I can remember it was different and when grandma spent the money to get new, royal blue plush carpet put in all over the ground floor, we were all proud and excited. All I wanted to do was touch it. I could nearly taste the color. It reminded me of Vienna sausages. I never enjoyed eating those tiny canned abominations but I liked that color blue.
  4. There was a single island of dark wood laminate breaking up the constant sea of blue carpet right where the front door was. It was so cold in winter. I liked to lay my hand half on the carpet, half on the laminate and feel the difference. Mimi (my great-grandmother, for the uninitiated) kept a rag run on it, one of those rectangular, rainbow-woven things that’s made from fabric recycled again and again and again.
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