Friday, March 23, 1973
Tonight is my last night living in the house I grew up in . . . since I was five.
Tomorrow, I’m moving into a 500-square foot studio apartment in a recently completed complex that’s opening to new residents this weekend.
I just need to get away from 23rd Avenue, so I won’t hear the N-street car and the 71-bus roaring by and shaking the house every ten minutes. There’s other stuff I want to forget, too. All the death and dying I’m seeing every night at work is triggering the memories of what happened to Mom in the upstairs bathroom.