Remy likes brooms.
Sweeping gets us through that late part of the day
when we’re both a bit tired.
—
Out on the front footpath,
brooms in hand,
we saw the neighbours.
One house over.
Four years.
Barely a word.
“Hello,” I said.
—
The adults started talking.
The kids didn’t wait.
No toys.
No rules.
No organising.
Concrete.
Grass.
Leaves and sticks.
Running.
Laughter.
—
The twenty metres between our front gates
had been sitting there the whole time.
—
We stood there longer than expected.
—
This morning,
back on the path,
brooms again.
Remy looked up the street.
Just in case.