You can pluck up the roof with your fingernails. Underneath
it, in the attic story, a boy at a white enameled desk operates a
ham radio set. When I lift the attic and set it gently into my
palm, he doesn’t notice, going on with his da-di-das. When I
set the attic on the ground, he climbs out the window and
walks off to see if the rest of the street has changed.
The second story, with its darkened bedrooms, is empty save
for the sleeping mother—and comes up too easily, like a glass
pitcher that turns out to be plastic.
Meanwhile, the sudden wind in the living room lifts the sheet
music from its stand and pulls it into an airborne S. The
young woman at the viola scowls because I’ve interrupted her
practice. She flings her bow onto a chair and stalks into the
kitchen, where the cabinet doors are blowing open and shut.
Since this is the kitchen story, you can unscrew it like a jar top
and lay it aside.
In the basement, four small girls call “m o r n-ing!” because,
having stretched out and closed their eyes for a moment to
mark the passage of night, it is morning in their game. After a
second they realize the cellar’s brightness is real; they squint
upward, hair flying into their faces. I’ll tell you what none of
them knows: I buried a piece of coal under the foundation, so
that I could come back when I’m old, dig up the diamond and
be rich.
--Joy Katz, 2000