Impressions of a walk through my old suburban neighborhood, Christmas Day, 55 degrees Fahrenheit 

Throughout the week, I write down moments out of the day about fascinating details of the environment and the people around me. I’ll be posting them here every Monday.

A tall, chain-link, fenced-in yard clutches to it a blue tarp that may have been the base of a pool once. It is semi-dug into the grave and dirt.

The corpses’ hair of high, tall, bleached white and pale green grass and wet straw on the dead lawns.

The inflatable bobbing penguins.

The Christmas decorations ironic against the bright blue sky and the lawns untouched by snow.

A crucifix dangles from the rearview mirror of a Suburban van.

The birds chirp “Aprils fools” four months early. Out in the distance church bells gravely remind us it’s Christmas Day in Illinois.

The cars crawl on the avenues just as the plane crawls along the sky.

From open back doors come the scents of slow-cooked dinners.

I walk past a broken something-or-other—shards of plastic, mirrored and dull, curved and jagged. A side mirror from a car, perhaps, from an accident or on purpose.

The heavenly smell of burning wood: I am ten years old again.

My gloves are off now. I begin to sweat. My throat tightens and dries.

A Q-Tip and a leaf are frozen in time on the sidewalk below me, never to touch, only a centimeter away.

The calm empty streets, bereft of people and activity. No noise except the scratch of leaves against the unsmooth skin of the sidewalk.




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