Wednesday, 03 September 2003 | The North

I couldn't get to sleep last night. I rarely have trouble, because I tend to deprive myself of it; yesterday, however, I was full of sleep, like a warm pot of coffee. As I lay in the dark, for some reason I thought about the elements of my grandparents' house—the TV news anchors who talked about a strange section of the East Coast, a subtly warped bathroom mirror that makes you distrust your reflection, a sand snake at the base of the attic door, bathroom wallpaper full of pink poodles that behave like humans, spooky pot holders with the faces of plastic children sewn in, and walls of disintegrating photos. The elements took turns, as if selected by a spinner in a board game.

I thought about the crocheted grocery list with the plastic orange pins; as a child, I would always slide the pins over "whiskey" and "beer," for my grandmother to discover later. She'd tell me I was a silly girl.

I thought about the smell of their house and how I used to think that was the smell of the North. When I climbed into bed last night, it occurred to me that I now live in the North, but my place does not smell at all like my grandparents'.