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at some point, the neighbor moved out of his house. his daughters thought he was too old to be living alone and so he came into their care, left all of his belongings behind. his ramshackle porch filled with the detritus of a life.
the back of his property was fenced but it opened into our yard, his property line extending further back than our landlord, bill’s. the neighbor’s lot was treeless and bare and when snow fell it covered the lawn with cream-cheese frosting.
zooey, brandon’s black lab and newfie mix, lived her life on leashes. she didn’t get along with other dogs, she was too much of a liability. on starry evenings when i walked her to do her business, sometimes i’d let her loose in the neighbor’s yard, corner her by the fences and chase her while she darted like a pinball between bumpers. the soft flakes would catch in her fur, shining diamonds to match the sky, and she’d pause, winded, before a jolt of energy sent her racing once more.
when we were both sufficiently tired, i’d hook her back up to her leash and bring her inside, cover her body with a towel and dry her off her legs and belly before sending her upstairs. then, i’d go back outside and trudge out in the knee-high snow to the middle of the neighbor’s yard, lift my arms to shoulder level and let myself fall back into that cold cushion of comfort.
utterly content to be lying there in my puffer parka, watching my hot breath mingle with arctic air, silent underneath an umbrella of constellations. and when i felt myself drifting toward sleep, i’d wave my limbs back and forth against the packed ground and take flight.
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