A Common History of Avoidance Allison Alsup Two doors down, but never a neighbor the token hoodlum of our landscaped street cracks a lighter to a cigarette the starting mark of his walk to the avenue. One mile there, another back, timed to arrive before the noon hour rush. I have seen him, on my way elsewhere to buy imported coffee, to pick up shirts. He sits alone in a delicatessen, his stare dull, uncommitted like someone who watches the afternoon sky for clarity or signs of rain knowing he will stay in either way. There is a wedge larger than the house in between. From childhood, estrangement by rumor: the brother, a girl, and the police. Mothers pulled their ponytailed daughters aside to talk about good touching, bad touching. and the garage at the bottom of their sloping driveway became a thing for summer night dares. He used to spend his days lying next to a motorcycle that he bulleted down the pavement at night. Then he crashed and proved right the fathers who'd shaken their heads. The age of employment came and passed. We younger kids packed trunks for college. This Joseph stayed, or was that the brother? Still playing the bad teenager, he smokes too much. I think, his lungs must be dried like pasta shells so when he goes, there will only be a little snap and he can be swept away as easily as the leaves in the gutter his mother sweeps in her slippers. But if strides could erase culpability, this sidewalk would be his grace. Zippered, hooded, insulated against the excruciating pleasantness of a good neighborhood, he starts for home. His staccato limp hits the concrete like a metronome ticking off wasted chances. He is foolish for walking in such weather. And if I pulled to the curb and offered, he would only have to decline; my sedan too narrow to contain this long history of avoidance, and so wheels slick with wet keep their silent spin; no snags, no lulls, no whisper, next time. ©All text is copyrighted and may be reproduced only with the express permission of the artist, all profits from reprint, transmission, etc., are the property of the author. Thank you.... |