More come out in the evening, perhaps to walk around in groups, sit on benches and discuss the day’s scores and prizes. I don’t know her but I do jog by here often. A few houses down the road, an old lady stands, water can and cutters in hand amid a yard full of vibrant flowers. Back when they were built, each of the thousand or so houses in the neighborhood had been painted one of a hundred pastel colors.Īre they able to use different colors in other places? Each home has a few visible differences: window curtains, deck furniture and other outdoor garbage mostly. Dirt lots, maybe an unkempt flower bed, empty driveways next to flood floors. Another streaks through an intersection far ahead.įactory identical houses, one after another. A tiny mail car shoots down the empty street, slowing only when it goes past me.
Hustling along the empty sidewalk, the late-morning haze filters the sunlight to a distant warmth.
Now it’s easier than … work, maybe.īut work will always be hard. At some point these sweaty walks got faster, steadier and maybe even routine.
