main street:
i used to be able to see this apartment from my bedroom window. places we both left. you my best friend watching me walk home from your kitchen. me a body disappearing into the mystery of the night. an icy skate back home. i associate your apartment with winter even though we spent many summer nights there together. something about the memory of heat the warmth hitting my face at the door. i think of how proud i sound when i tell people the tale of us discovering we were almost neighbors when i drove you home one night. my voice a thing taking credit as if i devised the layout of the town as if somehow i created this situation and not some type of sweet luck.
your apartment a brick building overlooking an ice cream shop that never had a chance in this world. your apartment up the weird stairs to the second story. i made a game of knocking and then hiding or standing in strange stances each time i would arrive. something that’s become hard to recreate in your new space though i try. i think of the candles lit and mixing together to cook a smell that is indescribable to me but that i can still imagine if i close my eyes. something welcoming and warm. something i have never found in another space. always in the morning putting my nose against my shirt that i wore to your house and finding that scent tucked away within the threads.
your apartment open the door into the kitchen tiled floors and a double card table where we would play king’s cup. and once we laid out food there for a friendsgiving that your then fiancé invited a hot stranger to where we played jackbox games and the night became something familiar as if we had always all known each other. and once before a spring semester opened up i drunkenly kicked your stove so hard the next day discovering my sock a bloody mess and my toe nail broken in half. and once you planned a birthday party for me here where people dressed like gnomes and drank and filled out little papers mismatching compliments and roasts. and once we welcomed the new year sitting on your kitchen floor spitting champagne back and forth in each other’s mouths like a never-ending fountain of affection. i can still feel the bubbles moving through the gaps in my teeth.
i never fell asleep in this space though the plans for a slumber party were always in the works. off and on i would let myself in with the borrowed key to take care of your cat and bring in the mail. some days i would do so in a hurry a quick in and out. other times i would take my shoes off and stay thinking of the ghosts you describe being here in your stories. playing little tricks like maybe i’m one of these ghosts. putting my hand on the wall like i could just sink in there and remain. sometimes i would steal a beer from your fridge cracking it open while sprawling on your couch with all of the lights on in the place. sometimes i would bring my own book to read on your oversized chair and other times i would search through your books running my nosy fingers across their spines searching for something that wasn’t mine.
my ghost here is tucked into the cushions on the left hand side of the plaid couch. my ghost here curling up in the little spot in your closet where your cat would hide. my eyes wide reflecting light like hers. my ghost here pacing over the sticky spot in the kitchen where the champagne dripped from our mouths. my ghost here knocking on the door and waiting crouched on the staircase for the new occupants to find.
❧
edinburg road:
my childhood home a small one-story ranch set back and surrounded by woods from behind and to either side. on a road that is also a town. isolation easy here except the house is packed full. three bedrooms with seven occupants. at one time or another each of the bedrooms was one i called my own.
open the front door mind the gap between the steps and the storm door peppered with old bullet holes. the previous occupant someone who sold drugs we were told and i try to imagine a person driving all the way out here for drugs. the middle of nowhere. my childhood nowhere. enter into the living room small and carpeted with a weird bar cutout behind the couch the room never quite separate from the kitchen. the kitchen always ugly tiled floor a ‘70s yellow with a matching stove. the hallway small with a vent in the middle always ready to stub a toe the hallway branching off into the three rooms and little bathroom.
my childhood home a place i always wanted to leave. always too small too aware of how others thought of us my family all crushed together in it. the town where we were always outsiders always someone outside of something. i remember someone at a soccer game asking my mom how we all fit in such a space. i remember always yearning for the other houses i got to visit houses with unending bedrooms and stairs that separate one part from another. i remember feeling stuck so far away from anything that mattered or seemed to matter. i look back at photos of me when i was young in that house. photos with the christmas tree squeezed into the spare space between the ugly floral couch and the wall. photos on the swirly aged kitchen floor with the table my parents still use in the background. photos of us all outside playing in the woods or on the front lawn. i never considered how lucky it was to be able to step outside and go into the woods something i cannot do now in my own apartment.
the bedrooms here a constant reshuffling of occupants. me and my four siblings a brother three sisters. me the second oldest. my first room the smallest one partitioned off from the living room i am told when my parents moved in. i don’t remember much of this room being my own only what i see in the photos with the pink wallpaper trim and my pooh bear chair. there are so many things i stopped letting myself remember about being a child too many things for my mind to hold that didn’t seem important and now they are gone. i remember wooden bunkbeds that i shared with one of my sisters. the top bunk mine with the barbie comforter that i would have nightmares of a yellow anaconda hidden inside after seeing one on tv. i remember my brother having the smallest room to himself after i moved into one with my sister. i remember the youngest two the twins always sharing a room double of everything. i remember getting the room to myself when my brother moved to my grandparents’ and one of my sisters took over his old room. my room then painted lime green with posters cut out of magazines all the celebrity crushes anthony green elijah wood emma watson staring down among others and eye-catching parrots clipped from old issues of bird talk splattered around the room. i don’t remember the reason but then i moved into the biggest room switching with the twins. the room with the white walls and dark blue carpeting. my bed a mattress on a boxspring. and my parents always sleeping in the living room. one on the recliner and the other on the couch.
open the basement door tucked away at the end of the kitchen. the trashcan sitting to the left the lightswitch on the right. the stairs old with paint chipping and the thin handrail i would clutch to as i let my feet down. the cold cement floor feeling nice on the feet in the summer’s humidity. my father would trap beavers muskrats otters and mink slicing their skin off their little bodies me and my brother watching then stretching their furs on metal racks to hang down here. he sold the furs for extra money that we needed. the stench of death like something haunted always lingered here long after my father stopped trapping. the stench something i can still smell now years and years later. i can still picture the knife peeling the fur from flesh the fur pulled back like a glove.
some days when my heart wants to go home i picture myself sitting on the cement front steps fingers running through the fur of my childhood dog staring into the cemetery across the street. some days i picture myself sitting on the cold basement stairs watching my mother do laundry. some days i picture myself sitting with my brother in the tree across the street sap sticky on our hands as we suppress giggles watching the neighbor.
my ghost here is beneath the front steps with the garter snakes and spotted frogs waiting to grab at the new occupants’ feet. my ghost here in the second story of the garage my father and his father built by hand. my ghost here at the end of the hallway crouched cramped in the old green laundry basket i would sit in as a kid. my ghost here hanging in the basement from the bloodstained metal racks like an animal waiting for someone to find.
❧
jameson street:
i drive by this house usually once a day not on purpose just a part of my stretch. an ugly ugly house with the front door ripped off once in a windstorm the white chipping paint visible from behind the wheel. the house that once caught on fire before you my poet friend lived there the house with raccoons in the roof and trees bending to their knees the house filled with the stench of the neighboring paper mill something constant something rotting. now i see children’s toys on the front yard and it feels wrong knowing all that happened in that space. no place for children a place of it’s always 4:30 in the morning a place of spewing poetry in the cracks of dawn a place of something late.
the little front step we made into a porch-like thing. rounded up by roommates from the bars where we promised each other just one drink. i did not live here but at times i felt as if. us sitting on the step smoking cigarettes deviating from our regularity some fucked up kids getting a little too old to act like kids. here i am the kerouac to your cassady you joke once because i can’t drive worth shit and you wouldn’t stop for the devil himself. here we are something volatile something wicked. here my worst self brought out your own. here i learn the shifting boundaries of friendships how blurry these terms get how desire works itself into everything near me. here my bandana tied into my hair you kissing my cheek we both clutching ipas that are no longer sold.
open the side door always unlocked always riddled with spiders and step into the kitchen. nights here spent sitting on the tiled floor nights here spent mixing gin and tonics squishing lime slices into mason jars nights here spent having just one more. the little sideboard that mail piled itself up on while we all were leaning. the stacks of books littered around hands grabbing mouths sharing lines aloud. sapphic lines slipping out mingling with the words of contemporary and even sometimes our own. living as we heard writers did in our little classes into the night mixing slipping and something else. things like this can’t last forever and didn’t. it was a happy place and then it wasn’t. i don’t remember when it changed only that it did. it was and then it wasn’t.
move into the dining room with more bookshelves with a little table and the rotation of chairs that were always breaking. in the living room with the bay window and oversize chair that i slept on more than once. the photo of me hungover plaid skirt cropped hair passed out with my thumb in my mouth on that chair. the photo of me blunt bobbed sitting up straight on that chair lipsticked mouth eyes something unkind. maybe it was in that moment that this space changed. us watching tv in the darkened room the curtains pulled tight after a night of me longing for someone who turned away. you always convincing me that no one else deserved me. only you. the blue futon where i sent drunk texts to the object of my desire after he left after he read my then favorite poem to me then left where i fell asleep crying and woke up cuddled into your dog the house empty. the blue futon that moved into my apartment when things were changing the same futon still lives with me now.
round the corner passing the slippery carpeted stairs that i fell down in the early awakenings of new years day my back a rug burn my leg kicking out one of the wooden banisters. into the bathroom my favorite room in the house so ugly ugly. the vintage pepto bismol pink tiles on the wall with white filling keeping them together. the double doors one always locked leading into your once bedroom the strange setup never actual privacy. the little window in the shower peeking into your neighbor’s backyard with no curtain. once i let myself into the house running past your roommates and puked into the toilet. looking up from the heaving surrounded by the warm pink glow.
my ghost here is in your bed wrapped up and hogging the blankets the morning waking into afternoon. my ghost here kneeling in front of the toilet head tilted up held tight and mesmerized by that pink glow. my ghost here sinking into the shelves of books searching for all the lines you read to me. my ghost here on that overstuffed chair pretending to be asleep and trying to riddle out all that went wrong.
❧
shirley street:
my first apartment a little corner one-bedroom in a building of twelve units. a building that used to be a canoe or creamery factory the sign for their parking knocked to the side in the lot. twelve mailboxes lined up on the breaking porch with the little bench seat where my partner and i sipped from drinks the view just the back of the town post office. when i moved in here this little space for one i was alone.
open the front door and take the stained carpeted stairs up and up to the second story. with a sharp turn to the left pass the door with the brightly colored alphabet magnets spelling out yes sir and walk to the one with a little gnome outside the door. number eight. behind the double lock deadbolt always engaged is a living room not separated from the kitchen. a little metal line splitting the two visually keeping the carpet safe from the yellowing tiles. in the kitchen a large wooden beam runs through the middle the hand-me-down table leaning one side against it. there are no hallways in this space the bedroom and bathroom both branching from the kitchen. the bathroom with no windows always a stale smell something wet and hidden in the uneven flooring. the cold water knob never working the hot water one dripping keeping time continuous like the ticking clock.
the single bedroom with my favorite window opening to show the waterfront in a distance. look to the left there’s the fire and police station the screaming sirens something i learn to sleep through even when apartments next door burn down twice. my phone filling with missed calls people awake worrying about my own building while i deep in slumber the world tuned out. look to the right at an angle and the kitchen window of my best friend nights spent peeking out seeing if the light was on longing to feel less alone. this space built for loneliness this space built for me learning to live with myself. no roommates no talking with the other occupants really except for the glimpse of a year when a neighbor’s cat would roam the halls and parking lot. the little cat who i loved like my own and who died outside of my apartment. hit by a car flying down the wrong way. twelve units and all of them something outside of myself. there were glances made into these lives though over the three years i spent in this space. i could hear the family next door screaming and fighting sometimes late at night and i would press my ear against the wall trying to understand what was happening. down the hall the blonde woman who worked at a coffee shop who would exchange familiar glances with me as i paid for my drink but never spoke. i came home to the police outside her door talking to a man and then the next month she was gone. i shared wifi with the neighbor who replaced the fighting family her dog always staring in the window to the parking lot we did not speak really just a routine of me shoving the envelope payments through the gap under her door.
so many things in this apartment my little first apartment were given to me. that old blue futon that lived a life of parties and spilt drinks now pushed against the living room wall getting covered with a coat of thick dust and blankets my great-grandmother crocheted. the chipped black table with wobbly legs that my sister’s ex-boyfriend helped carry down the narrow and twisting staircase of a loose acquaintance who was moving away. two of the four chairs never used because i never had more than one person over. the spoons with silver and black checkering handles that i took from my parents’ house that were with us since my childhood that i still feel sentimental when plopping them down into bowls of soup. mountains of tupperware borrowed and never returned. the baby blue countertop giving space for the microwave my partner’s aunt gave to me. the fan pushed into the living room window a temporary gift from a friend i no longer talk to. my little apartment filled to the brim with others not a lot of space for my own.
when i picture my bedroom now my mind often still conjures this space i left years ago. my bedroom that was mine and mine alone. the overstuffed queen bed on a boxspring pushed imperfectly against the wall. the gap between the wall and the bedside a place i filled with half-read books with hair elastics with forgotten condom wrappers with chewed nails. the windowsills white painted and round stains from wine dripping over the rim the windowsills holding succulents and other flowers i treated myself to on occasion. a large closet filled to the brim i would always peek behind double accordion doors in fear of finding someone strange before going to sleep. the solar nightlight always plugged in by the door the room never completely unseen. my bookshelves overflowing with a record player on one the first birthday gift from my partner that we would use late into the nights dazed watching the record spin itself while conservations whirled through the air.
my ghost here is sleeping in that gap between the wall and my bed laying on top of the things forgotten. my ghost here ear pushed against the shared wall trying to make unstrange the forever rotating people on the other side. my ghost here peering out the bedroom window waiting for the light in my friend’s house to be flicked on. my ghost here on the porch petting the ghost cat of my neighbor us together sitting forever in our final goodbye.
❧
cedar street:
i have to use google maps to find the name of this street in my mind i can picture it but could not remember for the life of us what it was called. and i can’t just ask you my friend who ghosted me though i keyword search through our old conversations to find it without any luck. the street tucked behind the bars of the town bars that we only ever went together once. you not drinking and me not wanting to be around you when i do. we had fun here once though now it is difficult for me to remember those times to parse through all that happened after you left here and then to parse through all that happened after that.
i park my car off the driveway in a little spot with dying grass beside a tree. walk through the garage door the mudroom that leads to an old couple’s home your apartment nestled above their garage in an in-law suite. sometimes i run into the old couple while i wait for you to unlock your door they never remembering my name right and me never correcting them. they always nice enough but you never really liking them something always wrong the way they live in their house the way they creep through the floors creaking and opening doors. i agree with you then but now wonder if it was just the forever searching of yours for something to complain about someone to plant your grievances in.
walk up the stairs with a little twist not straight up i cannot remember if they are wooden or carpeted but i try to remember. a tiny entryway with the forbidden door always locked that led to one of the couple’s spare rooms you always wanting to look in to it to use it but it never being yours. go into the kitchen with the sink that caught all the water never draining how it should spluttering and coughing the rice water strained into it. so many nights here eating baked beans microwave and jasmine rice on the stove. i still associate the fragrant smell of jasmine rice with you i rarely eat it anymore. in a cupboard you kept little straws for me to use beside a box of charleston chews my old favorite candy and some type of soda in the fridge. this space loved me once you made space for me here. i had my spot on the couch. i had the place i would leave my shoes. i had my place to park. there was a space for me here and then not. how to move myself out.
the living room cramped with random decorations on the wall motivational stickers from dollar stores put up in the wrong order little monsters scattered around to find. a coffee table riddled with sour patch kids half eaten forgotten art projects. your spooky dolls bookends on the shelf squeezed into corner. your cat my great-grandmother’s once cat lazing in the window sun. we would sit on your couch for hours chatting about anything at all or watching b-list horror movies and raunchy animes late into the night. we would play games while joking each other into tears and loss of breath. a space for talks of art and books and all that is happening in our classes. a space where i felt at ease once felt like i had found someone twisted into my own being. it felt easy being here with you.
the bathroom i can’t remember just that it was small. the bedroom i can’t remember other than the window ladder shoved to the side in case there ever was a fire. there are so many gaps here for me trying to trace where my feet landed all the things we talked about the nights turning into early mornings. haunted by these gaps wondering if this space was all that i made it up to be or if the time we shared was just projections of wishful thinking making you into a thing i needed into someone who wanted to be near me. i cannot remember maybe don’t let myself remember maybe don’t want to remember.
my ghost here is stuck outside the garage door looking up to the window in your living room waiting to be noticed. my ghost here is pulling at the door knob shaking it in desperation but could just be the wind. my ghost here circling the house searching for a new way in but everything is sealed. my ghost here curled up outside of the door waiting for you to come home and remember me.
Morghen Tidd (she/her) is a writer from Maine who received her MA in English from the University of Maine. Her writing has been published in Heavy Feather Review, Overheard Magazine, Squawk Back, Unfortunately Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Her debut short story collection, girl thing, is forthcoming from Long Day Press in 2023. Morghen can be found on Twitter and Instagram: @spookymorghen