Miss Wanda is gone she sold her place while I was cocooned in depression at some point this spring. I wear flip-flops on my own stoop, not worried about the infamous ringworm but suddenly self-conscious where I should be comfortable. Now someone calls the fire department every time the hydrant is opened, even when we use the sprinkler cap that reduces water waste. The feel of the stoop’s cool brown concrete beneath my feet had been calming. Three stories of century-old brick stood behind me like a solid wall of protection, imbued with the love of my mother and my neighbors and the tenacity of my block.īack then, I used to go barefoot, even though Miss Wanda, who’d wrench open the fire hydrant for kids on sweltering days like the ones we’ve had this summer, used to tell me I was gonna get ringworm. I sigh, close my eyes, and try to remember the freedom I used to feel, first as a carefree child, then as a know-it-all teenager, as I held court from this top step, with the world rolling out before me.
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