Three Neighborhood Vignettes

1. It's a Sunday like any other in mid-spring. The afternoon has just begun to stretch and linger, and the heat of the day feels refreshing in the way it suddenly gathers on your skin. I'm in our front driveway playing a game of horse with two neighborhood kids. This is before we have a child of our own, and it will be a few months more until we know that life in my belly has taken root.

I've got letters “h” through “s” and I'm on my way to an “e”. I've not really been trying all that hard, caught up in watching the two kids instead. The boy, Justin, I know. Ever since we moved to the block, when my husband and I are out on our evening walk, he makes us stop so he can pat our dog. He's told us more than once that he'll even walk him for us, but that it will cost us a dollar. Since we have a fenced in yard and our evening walk is the few moments in the day that my husband and I get to enjoy each other's company, we've told him that for now we'll pass, but you never know. We've left the door open on account of the fact that no one can really say no to an eleven-year-old kid without looking like a jerk (except maybe if your their parents and even that's debatable).

The other is a girl I haven't seen before. She's about a year younger than Justin. In watching them, I am fascinated by two things. One, that Justin seems to like this girl despite the fact that she's a whole year younger and their at the age where kids are prone to telling each other to get lost if there is just one hair askew. He genuinely cheers when she makes a shot, even if its something silly like standing directly under the hoop and throwing the ball straight up through the basket, which is much harder than it looks ( that was my "r" thank you very much). Two, she's about as good at basketball as I am, but that doesn't seem to stop her from trying like hell.

So I've fallen way behind the count to the delight of both the kids. It's my turn again, an easy lay-up from the right side of our driveway. I am dribbling and taking my sweet time, palming the ball and pumping toward the basket to line up my shot. I'm the kind of player who still shoots like a second grader, hands on either side of the ball instead of the dominant hand underneath and one to the side to guide it in. A basket for me has more to do with a general understanding of high school physics and mostly pure luck.

“So,” I ask, pausing to look down at the girl for just a second. “I haven't seen you around before. Did you and your family just move here?”

“No,” she says. “My house got closed. So we're living at Justin's.” Just then, the ball rolls off the tip of my fingers and heads off into the other side of our yard without even hitting the rim. Lucky for me, my shooting has been pretty bad, so I don't have to admit that my heart is in my throat.

“You've got an E,” Justin says, laughing and chasing after the ball. “You lose.”

“It's a hard shot,” the girl defends.

“Yeah, that's hard.” Only I'm not talking about basketball and I think she might know it, so we both look at Justin who is now lining up for his shot to start the next game.

Because there is nothing else I can do for this kid but offer up my driveway and a basketball hoop, I let them keep playing until they are both sweaty and panting. The girl's hair is naturally curly like mine and it's winging like crazy out of her ponytail, even in the low humidity.

I lose every game, five straight. Eventually, both kids collapse onto the warm concrete, their hands swung lazy over their eyes to block out the sun.

Somehow, I want the simplicity of afternoon to last forever or at least give her and Justin's parents time to sort out the accommodations of two families living in one house.

“Do you want some Popsicles?” I blurt, standing over them and looking down.

They both nod, so we sit on my driveway and suck the last bit of sweetness that we can out of the afternoon until it is too dark to see the hoop and our Popsicle sticks have gone dry.

“Let's go home,” Justin finally says. He pulls her up off the concrete and they wheel their bikes off to Justin's house, which is only six doors down.

I find myself letting go of my breath. I am so very thankful that she doesn't tell him that she can't.

2: It's just shy of two years to the day and despite the promises that everyone keeps making, the slim evidence that this whole mess is turning around, suddenly Justin is missing from the end of his driveway. He's grown out of advertising his dog walking services, but up until a week or so ago, he still waved while attempting a kick flip on his skateboard and he still asked me to stop so that he could pat our dog. Since the birth of our daughter, a little less than a year ago, our walks have gotten more frequent, motion a trick for conjuring sleep us parents learn early if we hope to survive that precarious first year. I walk by and try not to look up at the yellow notice posted to his front door.

Soon after, a dumpster pulls up. It takes two days for the contents of the house to be piled in. The guys on the crew lift their hands to me. It probably has to do with the baby peeking out from my chest like I've got two heads and both of us are wearing sunglasses. I see the legs of a kitchen table, the upholstered foot of a living room chair. No one asks me to stop so that they can pat my dog.

3. This afternoon, from my bedroom window, I watch two budget rental trucks barrel down the street. I wonder if they will have children, a baby my daughter's age. Someone we can wander over to with a plate of cookies on a lazy Sunday afternoon, practice holding hands, looking both ways to cross the street. Like two conspirator's, my daughter and I press our noses to the glass. The back gate rattles up. The truck is empty. Even I am not naive enough to ask why no one seems to be moving in, but only moving out.