|
tender_square
|
there is a house with a grand front door and a glass storm door over top of it. the entrance is a semi-enclosed porch that also has an open extension like a stage proscenium. someone, another neighbour perhaps, has left a rectangular metal serving tray with curly handles between the home's front door and the storm door, propping it open. my dog, a pure black german shepherd, has taken off and is sniffing around that home's door. the house is on a crescent, a moon's curve, much like the street i grew up on. i don’t have to travel very far to get there from where i’d been. there is also a black squirrel prancing on the enclosed porch. i am surprised my dog is paying less attention to the squirrel and is more curious about the tray. i call the dog over. the dog will not come. i sit on a chair on the porch and wait. a little boy from a house over comes and joins me, sitting in a seat beside. he asks if that’s my dog and i say yes. he is so little his feet don’t touch the ground while he sits but he is confident speaking to me, a stranger, an adult. my dog is still preoccupied. i pull a thin greenish-grey blanket around my shoulders. “where did you get that from?” the boy asks. “oh, this is from ikea,” i answer. “that’s a great store,” he says. i ask him where he goes to school. he answers, “st. rose of assisi,” a combination of the patronage of flowers and of animals, man and woman, saints who pledged to poverty. “oh, okay,” i answer, believing i know where that school is. the boy continues, “i have to clean a vestibule in the church and it’s really dark in there but i’m not scared anymore.” the dog finally leaves the door and comes over to us, sitting down between our two chairs. i am petting the dog gently. “what grade are you in?” i ask the boy. “i am six years old,” he says. “i thought so,” i answer.
|
230529
|
