12 June 2009   Twenty-five more days until the surgery. Twenty-
two until I leave for it. I teach English; I'm not supposed to
be this good at counting!  I'm still thinking about that
student's question: Who's homeless? And my response to it: What
is a home?  Now I am at the desk in the house where I have lived
for four years and on the block where I have lived for seven.
This is probably the closest thing I've had to a home in a very,
very long time--if indeed I ever had one.  Now I am recalling
the day a couple of months ago, during spring break, when
Dominick and I went to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens.
Afterward, we stopped by the house on Dahill Road where I lived
from the time I was eight until I turned thirteen. From there,
we went to El Viejo Yayo, a restaurant around the corner from
the Bergen Street apartment in which I lived for seven years
before I moved in with Tammy.  Perhaps the house on Dahill Road
was a home for me at one time. I had no choice but to be there,
and Mom and Dad had no choice bu