I like evening walks with my dog. The neighbourhood is hushed, but I hear everything. The inside of my own head, for starters. I wish I didn't need so much alone time. But my dog understands. When he's not eating garbage I have to pull from his mouth, that is. I let him take a shit on the lawn of the neighbour I confronted the other day after witnessing his kids throwing rocks at cars on highway, hitting a few. For a second I consider leaving it there. A dick move, I know. But it's just a brief thought is all. I can be mean sometimes. Only if I'm pushed to the brink. Sometimes those resentments pile on and I have the choice to exercise grace or to be my most vindictive self. In this case, I don't really care about this particular neighbour. He's a shitty parent and he talks down to women, but I'm also better than my worst thoughts. I clean it up and toss it in his trash bin. Tomorrow's garbage day anyway.
I peek inside the ostentatious houses. I wonder about the impoverished marriages and the unsatisfying sex and 30 second grunts of missionary and the TV shows they binge watch and if any of them even look up from their phones at the dinner table. I wonder about the kids with behaviour problems and undiagnosed depression and I remember that my kids are happy and they go to bed overloved and excited for tomorrow, their curious minds swirling.
I let my dog sniff the immaculate lawns of the NIMBYs and I think about how we always snuff out the ones who don't belong and for a minute I let myself get annoyed by neighbourhood Facebook groups that constantly complain about damaged people instead of broken systems. I shake my head and wonder if they even think about what they say before the say it.
I mirror the smiling faces of the elderly neighbours out for their nightly walks. I gaze at the houses with soft blue Christmas lights and decked out decor and inflatable Santas. Costco specials. But in any case, this place feels warm. My dog sniffs a few canine butts and we get tangled up in leashes with a few, and it's rather comical. The other dog owners know his name is Bowser and they talk about my daughter. They mention how much she's grown and how kind and industrious she is, ever so thankful for the papers she delivers to their doors each week without fail. Bowser and I say goodnight and we walk on knowing that we are lucky.
Sometimes this place makes me feel caged in, but then I already know that the grass isn't always greener. I learned that a year or two ago. Bowser and I make our way home to noisy kids a doting husband, and a good life. Bowser runs up the stairs and gets the zoomies, running from one end of the house to the other as he's chased by my son.
As much as I need the quiet, I would miss the sounds.
Comentários