In an old photo taken of our house, a woman wearing a long black dress and a white apron is standing on the porch. Did the first owners of this place have a maid? Hard to imagine, although when I'm scrubbing the toilet, I do sometimes mutter that I feel like Cinderella.
We inherited an album of such photos when we bought the house. Also in the album is a crumbling German newspaper from 1891 (apparently, a previous owner found it in the wall) and a Union Pacific map from the same year.
And what of the indigenous peoples who lived here before that? What is left of them on this patch of land where our house sits?
In a short lyric essay that was just published by Inquietudes Literary Journal, I ask myself these questions and many more. You can read "No Place Like It" at https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/issue-2.html.
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