I want a house on a hill like the ones with the gardens where Papa works. We go on Sundays,Papa`s day off. I used to go.I don`t anymore. You don`t like to go out with us,Papa says. Getting too old? Getting too stuck-up,says Nenny. I don`t tell them I am ashamed——all of us staring out the window like the hungry. I am tired of looking at what we can`t have. When we win the lottery……Mama begins,and the I stop listening.
People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars the forget those of us who live too much on earth. They don`t look down at all except to be content to live on hills. They have nothing to do with last week`s garbage or fear of rats. Night comes. Nothing wakes them but the wind.
One day I`ll own my own house,but I won`t forget who I am or where I came from. Passing bums will ask,Can I come in? I`ll offer them the attic,ask them to stay,because I know how it is to be without a house.
Some days after dinner, guests and I will sit in front of a fire. Floorboards will squeak upstairs. The attic grumble.
Rats? they'll ask.
Bums, I'll say, and I'll be happy.