The House That Forgot Us by Frances E. FitzGerald

The house we moved out

of in 1964

doesn’t remember

us. It doesn’t remember the wallpaper in the dining

room, the stove sitting where the fridge

used to be, the downstairs bathroom

tub where Aunt Betty dunked me

after I screamed my

defiance at getting the

shampoo rinsed out of

my hair.

The pantry doesn’t remember when

I cornered Mom one

December, demanding, Is there a

Santa Claus? and not hearing

what I wanted

to hear: Of

course there’s a Santa

Claus, no matter

what your sisters

tell you.

The house doesn’t

remember the ratty

beige carpet downstairs

where we built our

doll town, or the trays

and chemicals Dad used as he

developed his photos in the downstairs

bedroom. It doesn’t

remember the overstuffed

chair (on the front-porch side of the

living room) that

Teresa and I squeezed in

together.

The upstairs hallway doesn’t

remember Mom and Bill and I pulling

nails out of the carpet in

November of 1963, then hearing on

the radio that John F.

Kennedy was shot. Mom

 made us say Hail Marys. The

house doesn’t

remember our Hail Marys.

We remember

the house in our every pore. But

 now its green siding is

off, and gleaming, naked wood

floors breathe freely again, and

walls are vibrant blues and

pale yellows. It is as though

we never lived

there, even though our

old house has never

moved out of us.