Not easy

LOVELY STREET

 

The sun and I are barely up. Robins with fat red breasts peck in the grass searching for breakfast wiggly earth worms. Fascinated, I watch them and get a slight urge to vomit. Twice a week Mr. McGregor who lives catty-corner to me and my two teen-agers is oblivious, absolutely must start his lawn mower at 7 a.m. twice a week. The robins, the swallows fly elsewhere.

 

My house smells stuffy. I open the kitchen door, let the morning freshness in. Its sweetness fills my lungs. I hum softly, 'June is Bustin' Out All Over', even though it is early May. It's time to get Margie and Freddie downstairs. I hustle to their rooms and touch each one with a good morning kiss and a command to get ready for school. Usually I fix them a tasty, healthy breakfast in time to meet their school bus in front of Mr. McGregor's house. Once in a while one dawdles and I am forced, still in my house coat, to drive them to school. Not a neighbor in fifteen years has chastised me, mentioned my inappropriate dress.

 

'Good morning, Charlotte. Your tulips are even more lovely this year than last, and that's saying a lot.' I thank Ellie, a dear neighbor, and tell her I'll bring her a dozen assorted in the afternoon. With a wide grin she tells me I am fishing and will expect her Red Sun roses in June. 'You shall have them.' 'I'll have to be patient if I want my kitchen to glow. See you later.'

 

Two neighbors are already replacing Spanish tiles that broke off their roofs during a winter storm. Painters have started freshening entire houses in soft colors. There are no written rules about which are allowed but we respect each other and keep our homes soft, easy to live with shades of white, gray, very pale blue. One is yellow, softer than the earliest sunrise.

 

There are neighborhood barbecues, get togethers for cards, special birthdays weddings and sad, much too sad, funerals. The worst, hardest funeral was, is and will always be, my husband's. I don't want to talk about the tragedy but can mention the mental support I, Freddie and Margie got for months. It helped on the surface but a huge, sad hole remains inside of me.

 

Four years have passed like snails crawling up my rose bushes. I believe I have become a good enough actress to go on the stage. My tears dry before I go outside. The excitement of both of my children graduating high school, going off to Community colleges has left the house quiet and me alone most of the time.

 

Oh, yes, I tend my flowers, go to lunch with the ladies but I no longer am able to tell people I live on Lovely St. When I say 'Lonely St., I act and say, 'OOPS, I meant Lovely' and they don't even wince.