“Moving? Why do you say that?” “Oh, my daughter brought up the possibility at the dinner table last night.
She thought that maybe you’re fixing up the house because you’re getting ready to sell it.”
Even though Chet and I had talked about a lot of things while we were working,
I probably wouldn’t have told him about Mr. Finnegan or Uncle David or why the yard was such a mess if he hadn’t asked me about moving.
But since he had, well, I wound up telling him everything. And it felt good to talk about it. Especially about Uncle David.
It felt like blowing a dandelion into the wind and watching all the little seeds float off, up and away.
I was proud of my parents, and looking around the front yard, I was proud of me, too.
Just wait until I got my hands on the backyard! Then maybe I’d even paint the house. I could do it. I could.
Chet was pretty quiet after I told him the story, and when Mom brought us out sandwiches at lunchtime,
we sat on the porch and ate without saying a word.
Then he broke the silence by nodding across the street and saying, “I don’t know why he doesn’t just come out and say hello.”
“Who?” I asked, then looked across the street to where he’d nodded.
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