It was brick, red I am told. on a quiet street not far from 16th Street and its traffic. It was small, but a good home for a couple with a child or two in the heart of the District.
I have no recollection of it, save the tile, black and white in the bathroom, the radiator on which I hit my head, and the front stoop, and that only in the picture of me in his arms, my father, the man who adopted me and later a baby girl, then dropped dead one morning of a massive coronary. I have no recollection of him, of the sister taken away, or the house, but I mourn then all.