My mother smoked cigarettes and worked as an accountant. The wing back chairs followed me into adolecence. Here, Modigliani-like, we languidly look in different directions.
The great snowstorm of 1948. The house on Milverton Road. The address scans as a double dactyl like a Nursery Rhyme (higgelty piggelty, Thirty-two Ninety-two Milverton Road). The war had been over for just a couple of years. The world was safe for democracy. Soon Truman would beat Dewey. It was going to be all right.