A neighborhood comes to the rescue, sort of.
People swarm like ants to the “estate sale” at Anna Mott’s house halfway down the block.
Three days running I hadn’t seen Anna push her walker past my house to the corner and back, and I suspected the worst. After her husband died last summer, their home began to look shabby and sad, the shrubs overgrown, the draperies drawn day and night.
Now I’m the only widow left on our quiet, leafy street. I push that thought away and enjoy this bright February morning—brisk and cool even with sunlight streaming down. This kind of morning is why people flock to Southern California. And I’m alive to enjoy it, still able to wheel my own trash barrel out to the curb—it’s collection day.