I see brick row houses lined up evenly on a street, squished together, one street after another. A sea of row homes joined with brick and mortar.
Flat and sloping front lawns. Grass grows higher in the summer. Gets brown in the winter.
Sitting on the front stoop, I watch neighbors, look at cars pass by and wait for my friends to come outside.
These row homes are called “straight throughs.” Walk through the door to someone’s own personal world, to a kitchen of home cooked meals.
Downstairs Mom does her laundry. She washes two loads at a time; never mixes whites with colors, hangs them on the same line.
Our basement is finished with wood paneling, grey-speckled linoleum on the floors, and a little wet bar for Dad to smoke a cigar and hide.
My best friend painted his basement black with a Day-Glo peace sign, a flickering strobe light, and a real-life Jimi Hendrix poster on the wall.
Row homes are generally warm and comfortable. People who live in them are usually humble and smile. Neighbors know you and you know them.
Like the row homes they live in, everyone is the same.
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