Our Second-Hand Italian Apartment

My dad once told me that having a gap in your front teeth meant that you were lucky. He said this to me as he fished a leather wallet out of a bargain bin in front of Carriage Place Mall, next door to the Blockbuster. Thirty years later, he still carries that same leather wallet—permanently embossed with its outline of credit cards and protective plastic flaps, now opaque with yellow stains. Is it lucky that he hasn’t lost it? Or that, despite never striking it rich, there have always been a few 20-dollar bills tucked inside whenever he stretches it open?

I don’t have as big of a gap tooth as my dad. Mine is barely perceptible to the outside eye, but I can feel the sliver with my tongue, the spot where dental floss finds a path of zero resistance. I wouldn’t consider myself lucky in the traditional sense—I’m still waiting on my big break and I’ve never spotted a four-leaf clover—but there is one area where I’ve repeatedly felt the stars align.

I’ve always had great places to live.