This house. This home where a family lived. A yellow A-frame in the middle of the street. Swingset in the backyard. The garage where pop would stay for hours; working on the car, sawing wood, drinking whiskey; it poured out of his skin. He’d trip over the threshold every night. Mom would just smile.

There was always music playing in the house. Old jazz albums lined the bookshelves. Pop would sing along with Chet Baker, or, pretend to play drums on Kind Of Blue. Music flowed from room to room along with the smells of mom’s cooking. She made something from a foreign country every night. The kids were well educated in cuisines.

The two boys were raised to be kind and giving souls just like their parents. They always packed two sandwiches in their lunch bags. Pop told them to give a sandwich to a kid who needed it. He said, don’t make a big deal of it. Just give em the damn sandwich, they did as ordered.

And one day, they were gone. A van pulled up in their driveway. And, they were gone. Nobody knew where they moved to. They just left. A new family moved in. It wasn’t the same.

I miss those sandwiches.

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