Old Liebemarlene stood barefoot, without a detectable wobble, on the cool cement of her little porch. The creek that ran behind my house ran behind her house too, stirring up imaginary memories. The dead from the burnt down hotel crawled up the sunken creek walls on hot summer nights (days of which my companion and I wandered house to house), through our overgrown backyards where they peered inside at our peaceful rest.
“Got a brick there, kids?”
“It’s a-“
“Shh!” I snapped at my companion.
At this point she was, say, 87? 88? Later, still on this street, she would be 98, then 99. Still, no one ever held his breath in anticipation of her death.
On the brick, a faint indentation-‘Hotel Moon Bay, Est 1889.’
Liebemarlene chuckled, “We loved watching the fancy people walk up that grand staircase…” And we watched in awe as her strong, masculine hands picked up her broom and began sweeping.
