I live on the corner of Mohawk and Arrowhead Streets. You could say that I’m three years old, but I haven’t started counting yet. My neighborhood has street names like Iroquois, Bison, Algonquin. The syllables feel good in my mouth. My favorites have the letter ‘q’ in them. I imagine them to be the names of stars who long ago fell from the night sky onto my little world. The people on this street have pedestrian names like Crabtree, Thompson, and McCormick. Every night, I lean on my window sill towards my far away brothers and sisters and try to whisper them back down to me. But it seems that all heavenly bodies have left these suburbs.
[Other images in this scrapbook can be found here.]