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34 Edgefield Road, winner of the Broadside contest, Dominican University

Summers, our bikes leaned against the front porch; winters, our boots piled in heaps by the door. Chris and I couldn’t wait for his mom’s pancake breakfasts on Saturdays. Mrs. Riley was a round woman, freckled, cheerful. I was eleven when she died; an accident, everyone said, nothing else.

Soon afterward, Mr. Riley moved the family away– though he refused to sell the house. None of us knew why.

Now 34 Edgefield Road remains, sinking into the earth, dilapidated, forlorn. This morning, I watch sparrows flying in and out of its broken windows. Do they sing inside those empty rooms?

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