The house where my aunt lived wasn't really a house.  In fact, it was a duplex, though it was what my aunt had called her home since graduate school at SMU, about four decades before.  The place always reminded me of a 1970s museum, especially as a child.  Macramé still hung from the downstairs walls, and the bathroom attached to the kitchen had a light switch that transformed the knob into the male anatomy, encased by the image of a male flasher.   Every time you turned on the light, you turned him on as well. 

“I love that little light in there.” Tammy said.  “Your aunt sure has got a sense of humor, though I know you know it.  I never had too many dark moments with her.  You can tell when the pain gets worse, if people have a lot of darkness inside.  That’s when it all comes out.”

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