I remember the steep hill we lived on at number 60.
I remember how the rain would flood down from the quarry and into the cellar and rise up through the house to make bubbles in the wallpaper.
I remember the dog shit and the broken glass on the park over the road.
I remember the music of the woman who brought her furniture outside in the summer to sit on.
I remember loud Elvis and laughter.
I remember ours was the first house on the street to have a ‘phone.
I remember it rang sometimes.
I remember the sound of the quarry wagons as they thundered up and down and shook the windows all day long.
I remember long days that ended with a smiling photograph.
I remember playing on the street in my Wendy House with my cousin.
I remember how it blew away, and us just sitting there with our tea party.
I remember the woman who came crying in the night to use our ‘phone, glass in her bleeding feet.
I remember how quiet it was when the quarry closed and the wagons stopped.