Growing up, our house had a pseudo second story. There actually was no second story, but a couple of random windows up top gave it that impression from the outside. I remember having to explain this to friends when they would ask, “Is that a two-story house?” as if it that was the ultimate symbol of status and wealth. At any rate, I would always set the record straight using childish clarifications spoken with an air of adult importance. “No, Michaela, it’s not even an attic. Just a couple of windows stuck way up there. I think they call that particular architectural style Track.”

Many a bird met its demise on those wannabe two-story windowpanes. I remember lying on the living room floor watching Saturday morning cartoons with my sister; we’d be wrapped up in an episode of Speed Racer or Bullwinkle when a starry-eyed bird would slam into the glass. The thud was disconcerting at first, but eventually it became routine. My sister and I would exchange a knowing glance and then return our attention to the tube.