Centipede Summer
I can hardly recall where in New Jersey we lived, possibly Trenton, but that sounds unstable when I speak it out loud.
I do remember the wood paneled exterior of the building, and the way the hallways twisted and turned, making it difficult to find my way home each and everyday.
I remember the courtyard in the middle of the building, a cement hole in this five-story wood doughnut. There in the cracks of the cement my sister and I studied the bodies of dead centipedes that seemed to dry up in the still, humid air.
We roamed the entire building, searching for somewhere worth exploration, somewhere with the promise of new discovery. Most days we would pass the time by riding the elevator and blindly stumbling through the different levels of the building until we were too turned around to find our way back. Then we’d wander back and forth through stairwells and hallways looking for something familiar to lead us home.
Other days we’d just watch TV.
We lived in apartment number two, but I don’t remember the floor number.
There was always a box of Nilla Wafers in the cupboard.
As night approached I would wrestle with my sister about who slept on the fold-out bed and who slept on the couch. Both the couches were a dusty old gray, drab and dull.
Thoroughly uncomfortable.
My sister thought it wise to dominate the fold-out because of its size, but I quickly learned that the smaller couch was far superior to the metallic spring of the fold-out.
Regardless of which position was relegated to me, I would lie there for hours. Watching the minutes blink by through the red lights on the digital clock.
With only the clammy summer heat to keep me company.
