Two nine-year-old boys live in the house behind mine. They probably think I live in the house behind theirs, but nope! I was here before they were. My dogs have peed in the backyard enough that I can definitely claim this as OUR territory.
|They're not identical twins,|
but let's say they both look like this.
Now you might have noticed that I didn't mention that adults live in the house behind mine––because I swear to God no adults live there. It's the two nine-year-old boys.
I have seen a carousel of adults revolving around the house. They go in and out of the doors and talk on their cell phones in the yard behind MY backyard and blow cigarette smoke toward my house. I do not believe for one second that any of those adults live in that house. They just keep revolving and smoking and talking into cell phones.
Now, how do I know that the boys are nine years old, you might wonder. It's because they drove me so crazy one day that I yelled at them. I screeched, Where are your parents?
Er potter's nert ahm, they seemed to say. I'd heard everything else they'd been shouting for hours but when I asked them a question, suddenly they couldn't be heard.
I went over to the very tall privacy fence that somehow does not protect me from nine-year-old boys. I asked again, Where are your parents?
After three or so attempts at understanding them, they finally spoke loudly enough so I could hear them say, Our father's not home.
I used to be a newspaper reporter. I can conduct an interview with the best of them.
How old are you? I screamed.
Eventually their whispers wafted through the ether: We're nine years old.
Nine years old and they're at home alone on a school day––or what should have been a school day.
The words you dread as much as I dread nine-year-old boys: to be continued . . .
Infinities of love,