sorta like Leonid Afremov

My neighborhood houses some gorgeous triple-deckers. Admittedly, I was easily seduced by their structure and stained glass windows. By their colors. And Boston’s city landscape didn’t offer much by way of color.

I miss Utah landscape every day: green and gray mountains, red rock, even Utah Lake in all its filth. But in the few years before I left, Utah County’s affinity for all things beige was on the rise. Neutral brick, stucco, moldings, shutters, the works. All the same. Antique Beige. Whispering Wheat. Navajo Sand. Golden Coast. The housing developments west of 1-15 near the point of the mountain are proof of the worship of the subdued.

The older homes or bolder owners still use color. My favorite house back home boasts peeling turquoise trim and burnt orange brick. There’s a wheelbarrow leaning against the north wall, and I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.

On the days I take the train to school, I pass my favorite house on the block. It’s deep teal with white trim and a red brick staircase. Tiny, stained glass diamonds accent the corners of every window; they glimmer like fish scales in the sun. The house to the left ranks in my top ten: royal and light blue with open, welcoming windows and white pillars. It looks a bit overdone with its double porch, but I’d take my tea out there if they’d let me. The house two doors to the right is burgundy and has a broad porch that wraps around the house like folded arms. In my brain, the burgundy home has authority, is somehow in-the-know about the rest of the neighborhood. I wonder if it knows what the hell is up with the house across the street.

The house in mourning. It may have been blue once, but now it’s only a suggestion of its former color. It’s impossible to see anything inside. Pillows, clothes, hangers, dressers, sofas, and boxes press against its windows. My roommate says she’s seen a Vietnamese family hustling their kids off to school, but I haven’t witnessed any movement. It’s always still.

I wonder how they live. Where they sleep. Why the clutter. I think about how many Hefty garbage bags it would take to clean the house. How long it would take to paint it rusty orange with turquoise trim.

When the sun’s out, the paint still looks wet. But when it’s overcast and the ocean reflects the gray skies, Boston reminds me of Utah housing—Granite. Charcoal. Stone.—and the colorful houses are the fluorescent hang gliders soaring from the point of the mountain, airborne over the muted neutral.