My first memories of home are back alleys behind a block of high-rise tenements. Walking up the unpaved short-cut from the park across the street, I could see the stairs to the fifth floor apartments snaking their way in a zigzag pattern up the backs of the identical buildings. Ours was recognizable by the white painted billboard of a butterfly that loomed across the north side of the brickface. With its wings spread in flight, an older child might think it symbolized metamorphosis from the poverty under which we now lived. It wouldn’t be until years later that my brother would point out to me that my delicate, fluttering insect was really a painting of a disconnected toilet seat. The cover and seat were open, and looked to my five year old senses like the open wings of a butterfly.
This was a Six Sentence Story. The cue was “park.” Go link in and hop around a bit!