I was born and raised in Grand Forest, WY, in a house with floor plans like a soul print. I learned how to fit in with socially accepted habits in that house. Front steps, a small front porch, and inside the dining room to the left, living room to the right, with a fireplace, my dad's chair, the less comfy one for my mother, and a couch where my brother and I sat when we listened to the radio as a family. The bathroom opened off the hallway leading to my parent's bedroom, and my bedroom had two doors, one opening from the hallway and the other opening into the kitchen, where we ate breakfast and lunch in the small nook by the window. Stairs led to the back door and then deeper into the basement where my brother had a room, my mother had a small office, and the cool red cement floor with a drain reminded me of blood on which my mother stood to do the laundry.
When I married at 21, I gratefully fit into my husband's idea of a wife's role. I tended to household chores, fixing meals, and bearing four children. But then he died of a heart attack on a mountaintop when he was not yet fifty, and the children were still young, and by then, my brother had died a terrible death, and my father passed quietly in his sleep. My mother never had the life she dreamed of. At thirteen, her mother died, and she had to take the woman's place, tending to the younger children and keeping the house together. And she often hinted in hushed…
