It hasn’t been a month since I sent this letter, but I’m feeling apprehensive. I’m feeling frantic.
Because of my personal connection with the house, because one of my sisters met a (former?) resident a few years ago who offered her to stop by anytime, because I feel so ready to write this story, I let one possibility slide out and away–what if they don’t let me in?
Late last week I took the kids to the park we used to walk to. It was so hot and I’d always loved that wading pool. I had an excuse to drive through the neighborhood and elicit odd looks from a next door neighbor. I imagine what he was thinking, Creepy, what are they looking for? Nobody drives through here. Man, I look buff in these shorts.
Honestly, I’m always shocked to see any life on the outside, everything about the neighborhood looks closed up tight and snug. Out of everything I remember, I remember kids. Freeze tag. Flashlight tag. Sprinklers. Swimming suits and bare feet splashing along the gutters in the street. Waiting out the storm with the garage door open. Lawn chairs. The green fishin’ boat with the leaping bass on the side. The smell of gasoline. That astonishing feeling the air has just after the storm as the sun comes out–half the sky still lead gray.
Someone asked me, What’s plan B? And I don’t know. I hadn’t realized I needed one. Right deep down in my writing bones I am certain of this one thing, my story. I’m too chicken to go knocking on doors.
Maybe they’re just away on vacation.
Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong. What do you think, kitty cat?