When I step onto the porch I can tell that things haven’t been well. Peeling paint and sagging floorboards are all that’s left of the spot where we once had so many good times. Inside, the kitchen walls are worn away, revealing slats of wood and crumbling plaster.
My friend stands at the stove frying potatoes, her toddler son clasped to her hip. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her.
The dog is gone, the yard choked with weeds, the old truck a rusting hulk in the driveway.
“So how have you been?” I can’t think of what else to say.
My friend smiles a crooked smile. She sits down at the kitchen table and lets out a heavy sigh. “Things could be worse,” she says, pointing to the fireplace where several bricks have come loose. “By the time the bank takes it they’ll have to knock it down.”
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