Another Memorial Day in the burbs. We had been planning a weekend getaway, but soccer matches and a sore throat scrapped our plans. As I sat in my fold out arm chair at the corner of my block, I chatted with the motley crew of neighbors.
The teenagers told me about the Junior Prom. Will their mother let them go to the shore over night and get a belly button tattoo. Um, no. She will not.
We waved at Peter the workman. Peter lives in the big brown house at the corner. The divorcee who lives in that house with her three teenagers looked for consolation after her divorce in the arms of Peter, her Polish contractor. Nine months later, she bore his child. He still lives there, and her children refer to him as “the worker.” He amuses me, so I waved.
Today, I had a low grade fever, but I had a ball with my block. Steve’s still back there drinking around the fire pit with Victor and Matt. I can hear them laughing up here in my office.