Weeks pass, and I've become fond of our cinderblock walls. I enjoy the sounds of our neighbors and the birds that have made a nest near our kitchen window. I stand at the sink and wash our plastic silverware, my finger tips becoming raw and wrinkled in soapy water as I watch Japanese children on the swing set. I like the sound of their rollerblades clamoring over the rough sidewalk and the smell of a curry dinner from the apartment below us. I don't mind how small and bare it is. Perhaps I will hang some art or have Trenton build a shelf, but I don't mind how small and bare it is. We don't have a broom, so I wipe the floor with a wet rag and Clorox. It doesn't take very long.
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