Rotting floorboards creak under her bare, leathery feat in a rhythmic crooning. The noon sun brings unbearable heat but we are safe, sheltered under the porch roof.
Empty flowerpots hang from a ceiling mottled with peeling, yellowed paint.
My brother says he can remember the flowers - bright purple petals mixed with reds and yellows. I do not believe we ever had flowers. A door slams shut inside the house. Curses drift through the open, desolate rooms. Heavy stomps approach, the echo flat in the stilled air but growing louder.