Glassport

On the roof of the house was a widow's peak, maybe, she never looked up to see. The house, a color green scalloped shingle with trim appeared dragonesque , a victorian with a wrap around porch, slept in the warmth of a sunny day lulled by the river.

In the small dormer room upstairs a kitten curled next to an infant on the waterbed, paisley wallpaper on a wall, a ghastly mistake for the owners to deal with after she'd moved. The only window in the room faced upriver , the only way for her dreams to go.

"Sometimes if your ship doesn't come in you have to row out to meet it " friends quipped.

An odd time, caught between catnaps in the afternoon and starflooded deep blue nights outside casting the room aglow she watched the light carousel around the room day after day , wound tighter and tighter until stress peaked she picked up a pencil and began to draw.

Childish, she 'd actually thought she could fly, questioning the existance of a Santa Claus until itinerating concepts of flight in hand, with the residue of childhood dreams, drew a Guardian Angel heart from 22 of her birthdate and wings.

The war ended. Nearby where Andy Warhol was born, the kids went walking by in platform shoes.