Homegrown
J. Lynne Moore
The steps of the Victorian home creak underfoot. Light blue paint is chipping off every visible surface: stairs, siding, window panes. A worn rocker sits on the porch. I raise my fist to knock, then notice the “Do Not Disturb” sign nailed to the door. A permanent fixture.
I glance at my note: 423 West Perennial Drive. A friend who works in public records tracked it down for me. It took many months because my adoption was “strictly closed.” Even my parents had never met my birth mother. She disappeared from the hospital a few hours after I was born. I’m starting to think she’s a figment of imagination, but then what would that make me?
These strange thoughts are simply side-effects. I’m weak from a mixture of heat and chemo and in desperate need of a chair. I tu
