Pine St. Kitchen #3
The bedroom above the kitchen was mine—chosen for its private stair and exiit. I think I arranged to sneak out the back door twice. In later years my father took over the back room. The stairs are high and steep, but he managed them into his nineties. I am more awed now that the room is mine again, and I see that long blue plunge opening before me in the dawn-light, no coffee perking until I make it. No smell of toast.