Kids tossed pop cans down its maw, waiting to hear them clink. Some of the older tenants whispered that there was no bottom to the hole. I watched its edges spread, swallowing the courtyard that used to stand between the four apartment towers they built to keep us from messing up their city streets. So many people out here got needs and wants displayed openly on veiny arms and pitted faces. They call it Willow Ridge, but nobody could mistake this place for a golf club. “Alice, I don’t want to see those dishes in the sink when I get home. You hear me?” Dad moved out here when the plant shut down. They were making tricycles until someone sued and the whole thing closed up shop. I was still in diapers, but I remember a house somewhere on a street full of golden retrievers and Dalmatians. I remember a mother and the sound of bikes ringing their bells. I remember grass that had yet to die and trees swaying in a yard. I don’t hold these things against him. I tell myself they are dreams.
What do You think about All We Want Is Everything?
