Our neighborhood was a clam's breath in an old pot, houses like unpopular candies tasted once and discarded. The gourd shaped rock in the middle of the cul-de-sac stole ambitions and curiosities from us.
My neighbors owned wagons and boots, hoses and saws, blades for flesh and turf. We read each other's diaries.
I was sent away in a cold carriage with a tissue scan drive under my seat. I had a little bit of everyone.