I had a red velvet chair, and a matching red velvet sofa, it wasn’t simply cheap furniture, it was free I try to remember where I got them, but all I recall is the position it occupied in my room overlooking the motorway.

My father called it the Roosevelt, or the Dan Ryan, or the Edens. This is how you can tell a carpet bagger, somebody who has moved to the city to make it, they use the numbers for the highways and never the names.

My father quizzed us. Chicago is a grid and every street has a number and a logic, we needed to know the logic to survive. My friend’s father made her memorize the presidents and vice presidents in both chronological and alphabetical order. She is getting her phd now, and I’m on the dole.

I remember the words to Robert Frost poems, Martin Luther King’s I have a dream speech, and Angel From Montgomery, they all blend together in my insomnia and I am ’An Old woman, named after my mother, who had a dreamt that on the red foot hills of Georgia her children’s children would find two paths in a yellow wood'

My mother used recipes from magical 1970’s cookbooks. The cookbooks are long gone and I attempt to use the magic of the internet to restore her memory, but nobody makes marble brownies any more.

She wrote things down and kept extremely banal travel journals that never revealed her interior life but were always highly legible. I have her passport holder, its faded red leather with her initials etched into it.

In the United States everybody has a car, and it is easy to find a couch in the alley, in England, it is impossible to move a settee into a Victorian Terraces and I try to remember every sofa that I have ever loved.

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