It was a four story building – at least we lived on the fourth floor and I always went down the stairs, never up. Each floor had a small, gritty tile landing, yellowing brown walls, with an exposed flourescent lamp on the ceiling. I remembered bouncing a ball too hard and it rebounded up into the glass, shattering it with a pop. My mother came out, dragged me back into the apartment, and called my father who came home to put in a new bulb before the landlord found out.
Read the rest at View From the Ledge.
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