Evening rolls out over the street edges…’Angelina, Angelina!’ A young voice answers. ‘She’s inside!’ Raucous laughter. A door slams. Then a lone figure bounces a basketball. Once. Twice. Once more. Silence. Whoever is yelling disappears up the other end of the street. A distant rallying hoot…fades out. The day’s energy is spent.
A chirping bird, a bit late to the night descending, twirtles and flibbits; there’s a rustling in the thick green branches. Silence.
Is this a memory of something I have? Or is it something I have lost? Is that the walking man, walking on by or is it the terrible dream in the night? I call out to him from the edge of our porch. ‘Are you seeing any art exhibits this summer?’ He responds, ‘No, no…I’m in the mountains all summer this time’. I nod. ‘All right then, understandable of course’. He disappears.
Time to go inside now. I hear distant bike bells. The small twins with matching helmets and bikes still dragging with training wheels ride slowly by the front of the house. They are still careful with the steering because twilight is tricky that way. Their father follows behind with a dilapidated dog; too much thick white fur for summer humidity. A duo of yippy dogs growl passionately as the big one limps past on his leash. He could not be less concerned with their yappy antics.
A single car floats by. The mosquitoes are out now; having reconvened during the day, they are beginning to attack with vengeance. The voices are gone.
Is it a memory or something I have lost? I roll up the porch screen and go in the house.
690 Saint Paul 