I wanted to find a house I used to spend time in, back when I was eighteen and nineteen and sometimes twenty - my ex-boyfriend's house in the heart of Brunswick. I haven't really crossed the river much lately, but I was visiting a friend nearby, and so I tried to remember the shortcut, but it wasn't in my body anymore. The house I could see so clearly, with its grapes growing over the side of the carport that the old Italian woman down the road would take for wine. One year we had a harvest party and I wove a wreath for my long hair, which my ex-boyfriend brushed out early in the morning, hairbrush batting at the knobs in my spine.
There was frosted glass in the house, and sometimes frosted windows too. We could afford it so it was always too cold or too hot. As I was walking down the wrong cobbled alleyway I reconstructed it brick by brick, populating the backyard with milk crates, lighting the stove in a corner that wasn't quite level and stringing the garage with fairy lights.
When I finally made it around the right corner, of course, the house was gone. Its art deco bones were good but its lino floors must have looked too cheap; besides which it wasn't using all of its frontage, growing vines where a garage could have been. I tried not to stand and stare like a creep, laughing at my own nostalgia, and photographed the new house to remind myself that even if the old house were there, I still wouldn't remember the name of the cat.