The was of a place

The chives, they used to grow in clumps running along the red cedar fence in the backyard. They always sprang back. The lawn mower would leave stumps. The air would get thick with their severed green sweetness. Within a summer’s week they’d be back.

Tony’s dad got him a silver Puch moped just to buzz up and down the street. Eddie would practice putting under his pine trees and talk to the kids about last night at the Duchess pleasure club. There were even parades, drums in the air, a powder blue Cadillac convertible, the passing chariot for a sashed and satined beauty queen; and children peered from behind legs, eyes on the clowns while reaching for thrown candy.

The bells of the knifeman’s cart still jingled over the slabs of root lifted sidewalks. The crossing guards were volunteers. And Twin Pines dairy left your order in the milk chute while you slept. Then, the streetlights blinked out, and back on, for days at a time. We stared out the window at the dark street—perplexed. Never thought that there had been a switch.

Chain link fences started to sag and clack. The sky drained when they pulped the elms. And up there by the mailbox, they broke her finger while ripping off her ring. Squeaking bicycles and screen doors fell still. The transformers up on the poles began to hum, joined by the distant hoot of the train carrying it all away. The elderly started to look like survivors, hangers-on, ashy and rumpled, obstinately taking walks to where people used to smile. And finally, the weeds choked out the chives.

l'a-ro