Through narrowed slits of the white plastic blinds hanging over the office window, I see a bus pull to the end of my coldesack and stop. I have to look away often or at the very least blink repeatedly, because the horizontal slits confuse and bother my eyes.
Two of my neighbor’s children hop off the bus with backpacks strapped over each shoulder. I wonder what grade they’re in, or how old they are, because they look young, but by my reckoning they should be much older.
They run up the slick driveway and run they’re hands over the gray car that’s slept in the rain the whole day. Pushing beads of water together quickly they fling it from the hood and enter their garage.
Since the rain stopped a couple hours ago, the sky has been uncertain whether it should lighten or retain its grayish hue. Right now the sky is yellowing, but within the minute it will turn again.
The few trees that stand alone and placed for aesthetic reasons between the curb and the sidewalk are all nodding off to my right, to the South. I can imagine their leaves wet, malleable and velvety, they are spring leaves, the kind a child tears apart along the perforated veins and then goes back to tearing up grass.
Every once in awhile the wind will whistle, and a wet bird will respond.
I grew up here, the porch outside the window, is where I used to bring blankets and set up a fort where I could eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and let root beer Popsicles melt into a bowl.
This is all beautiful. Everything, even the mundane, is beautiful. And I'm uncertain why I couldn't remain here any longer.
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