Each townhouse was herded together in packs of eight, all exact replicas of one another. They were small and quaint and housed mostly two person families. The yards were bare and uncared for, except one. The address decals were bold and faux finished with gold and black tarnish that hung on a silver plaque that was hard to miss. The garden was practically professionally tidy and trimmed; there were Pansies, Columbine bushes, Tulips, and strawberry pots that were overflowing with Chicks and Hens. The walk up to the front door was blotted with country blue and black spray paint from small appliance renovations and elementary school projects. The front door looked like an entryway to war, teemed with deep gouges, dents and dings from the fourteen years of furniture and small children that paraded through. Many memories, tired souls, hungry children, and walks of life all sizes and shapes marched through that door. It was where a home began.…
