On Masonic Street in Rockland, there is a gloomy blue-gray house with lots of drafty-looking windows. Typical. It sits perched on the edge of a small square lot of lawn and seems like it once was a sad place. But by the turquoise painted steps I saw a sign of change from within. I've seen in just four months the myriad desperate and depressed lives that are being conducted all over this working town. People who are poor, sick and hopeless. People who make their lives worse than the need to be, but who am I to say? I feel so sorry for myself for having to have my first job outside the house in almost seven years I screamed and cried and hurled epithets at no one in my car alone late at night. I was lonely and missing my daughter. And simultaneously missing my solitary old self. Today we were walking the dog and went past this house again.
A house that belongs on a northern island whipped by the wind. Where clothes hung out catch the scent of ancient pines.Inside, after a day that starts before dawn a family reconvenes. Is this nothing more than romantic fantasy a la Millet's noble peasants? Maybe it's nothing but bath salts and child abuse.
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