The House on Rivoli Street My earliest memories took place in that house, at an age so young that my parents shook their heads in disbelief when, years later, I shared those memories. They looked at each other, "You must've told her that" "No, not me..." . It is a beautiful house in a beautiful city on a narrow street in a neighborhood called Cole Valley. My parent's best friends, Jane and Jean-Pierre, moved there when they decided they wanted to start a family. Simultaneously, they handed over their rent-controlled Noe Valley apartment to my parents. They were very good friends. . It is a large house, with a garden, and room to raise happy, healthy children. Our apartment was great, but it seemed as though we spent more time in Cole Valley. . Jane was a flamenco dancer, Jean-Pierre an artist. My father is also an artist, at the time he was painting in oils and documenting our life in black and white. . I have a photo, in storage somewhere, of my father and Jean-Pierre creating decoupaged walls out of travel magazine in the kitchen of the house. I have another photo of Jane and my mom standing in front of the beautifully carved garage door. . Sometimes I try so hard to remember his face. I try so hard that my head begins to hurt...I can remember his hair, lighter than either of theirs, and his name: Jordan. . None of my parents other friends had children, yet. Jordan was the first baby I had encountered. I remember crawling across a room to his crib and pulling myself up by the green bars. I don't remember standing before this point. Later, I remember pulling his ears to turn his head left and right, which made him smile and always got a laugh from our parents. My parents say I can't possibly remember this...I had to have been 3 years old at the time. . I agree it seems far-fetched, but there are so many other memories. . I remember the sunlight falling on Jane's head as she sat on the floor of the hallway looking at an album of photos my father had taken of Jordan. I remember her shoulders shaking. . Jordan was three when he died. . I was almost five, and they say I couldn't possibly remember. I say there is no way I could possibly forget. My world revolved around that house and those four parents...Jordan too. . When Jean-Pierre left, Jane sold the house and moved to Sausalito. My world narrowed by half. How could I not remember? . He pulled the motorcycle up onto the sidewalk in front of the carved garage door, and shut off the engine. The roar in my ears grew louder. "This is your mom's house?" I asked. . I wonder how pale I must've looked. I explained that I had known two of the previous owners, without mentioning the third member of the family. Seventeen years had passed since I had entered that house. It was greatly changed, but I felt like I was sleep-walking. Standing in the kitchen, making small talk with his brother while trying to ignore the visible tension between the two of them, I could still picture the decoupaged walls. . I think I may have mentioned the strange coincidence that their mother was also a flamenco dancer, but that's all I ever said. . Sometimes, when I am extremely frustrated with my marriage and my life in this country, I fantasize about another path my life could have taken. . I imagine living in that house with my lover and my ghosts.

SMQ1997