The mortgage is paid off and she doesn’t have to take in roomers. It is all hers—meaning the pollarded catalpa tree by the front sidewalk, the woodshed around in back, the outside sloping cellar door, and the porch light that doesn’t turn on. Meaning also the white net curtains that have turned grey and are about ready for the ragbag, the nine-by-twelve linoleum rug in the front room, with the design worn completely away in places, the ugly golden-oak furniture that could be duplicated in any secondhand store, “Sir Galahad” and “The Dickey Bird,” and the smell of the kerosene heater.
