Monday, March 28, 2011
From a Lawnchair
We sat on the driveway in cheap lawn chairs, looking at the first edge of the sunset. She seemed timeless to me then, like parents do to their children, but I know now how young she really was. She had been throwing the ball to me so I could learn how to catch. Then we sprayed the driveway with a hose to clean it. Then we sat in those chairs, smelling the cool, clean water clinging to the air.
The grass, the whole front yard was immaculate. She took pride in it. She had a green thumb, just like her mother. So there were flowers. It was all very green, very alive. And so were we.
I looked up and down the street. I knew the people there. Most were okay. A few were risky to know. Unpredictable. One house, across the street, at the end of the block, was rumored to be a drug house. In the middle of a small, suburban neighborhood. And it probably was. But people weren’t so ready to shoot each other over drugs back then. It was much safer to sell or use drugs than it is now.
For the most part, though, the neighbors were nice people who ate spaghetti and fried chicken and meatloaf and potato salad, who went to work long hours and came back home looking for a little quiet. Just like us, they watched M.A.S.H. and the Carol Burnett show and Happy Days. We waved at each other and smiled. It was the right thing to do.
We were floating in this place, at that time, drifting slowly from day to day. Being. Doing what seemed right to do at the time. We had our place. There were shadows there, but we learned to live with them.
We sat on those chairs on that summer evening, looking at the sunset, wishing the day would last just a little bit longer.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2011