We sit beneath my neighbor's apple tree, sipping lemonade
and enjoying the buzz of construction coming from the old
house. You never knew the girl who lived there, but you're
better looking, and that's all you would want to know.
"I thought you didn't want kids."
The house is a perfect representation of us, seemingly fine
at first glance, but hiding a weak and decrepit interior.
With every swing of a hammer and pop of a nail gun, the
foundation gets a little stronger. It's too bad all things
aren't that simple.
"I don't. Not really."
This yard once held a swing set, and behind that a garden,
where the most ripe and juicy tomatoes were grown. I spent
every August watching the woman tend to her crops, and the
following October carving the pumpkins she so kindly shared
"Then why did you bring it up?"
The neighborhood is occupied by people who remember when
The Brady Bunch was scandalous, all willing to tell the
stories of their childhood, living in the same house
for as long as t