house: a (tiny) memoir
I remember my toddler self when small enough to ease between slats around the front verandah, circumventing the baby gate my mother had across the top of the steps. I remember the snow fence around the back yard, and how Snoopy, my dog, had dug a hole under a break to slip free. When I slipped from the porch, small enough to edge across the side to the steps instead of jumping down to the ground, my mother was beside herself. When they finally found me, I was in one of the fields, tending to a cow that was sick, and having difficulty standing. I remember the crunch and the give as the wild grass finally tore, that I pulled from the pasture to pile under her snout.

house: a (tiny) memoir