The Boy Across the Street from Mamaw's House

The Boy Across the Street from Mamaw's House


I knew there was something wrong
because of his trampoline, his moped,
his parents who filled the space between them with toys,
and the way all the kids in the neighborhood
muddied his lawn day after day.

Mamaw was dying at home, which is better
than dying with strangers, Dad said.
A neighbor girl saw me leaving Mamaw's house
and asked me to come and play and the boy
said no, but after another day
of me not even glancing across
at them, it was him, yelling.

When I crossed the brown gravel,
he told me to stand off to the side
and watch them all line up,
so I left. The next few days,
every time I entered or left Mamaw's house,
the boy made a point to jeer and laugh:
"We're having so much fun! You wish
you were over here." Inside, Mamaw
wheezed the moments away,
shrinking each time I saw her,
the white of her gown shocking
ly vibrant against the grey room.

After she died, I went back to the house
on an errand for Dad. The trampoline was empty,
the boy, gone. The neighbor girl came out
and told me he'd thrown a tantrum, chased
everyone off. She'd knocked on his door
a couple times, but all he did was sit inside
and play Atari games.
"He does this all the time," she said, "everyone
will be back out in a couple days. You should come by."
"Maybe," I lied and walked back down
the gravel road, past
the house, the muddied yard now
wonderfully and terribly quiet.

CL Bledsoe

Posted over on The Orange Room Review