The neighborhood

 The woman slowly went about her business, cleaning away yesterday's dirt and dust. Truthfully, you could eat off her floors anytime and come up with a clean mouth. She was old school and then some, a mother, a grandmother, and a wife whose husband left her when the wrinkles became too noticeable.

Like many women in the old neighborhood, she started her day early, sweeping the front walk and the three steps leading to the front door. She smiled at her neighbors and waved to the milkman, who would pick up her empty bottles and replace them with fresh milk, which she mainly used for cooking.

Today was Saturday, and the sounds of husbands mowing grass or fixing a car would soon fill the air. The smells of breakfast would be gone, only to be replaced with the smells of dinner already being prepared. She missed those days that time took from her, but she had her memories to join her for dinner, and she was thankful.

She loved summer nights when the windows were open, and a slight breeze came through her house, carrying the voices of neighbors playing a game of cards or singing some favorite songs. Two doors down, the newlyweds, dancing to the music they loved and holding each other close, brought tears to her eyes as she remembered her happiness from a long time ago.

Tomorrow, she would attend mass at the Holy Name of Mary a few blocks away, where she would walk, stopping along the way to chat with a friend and share the news of the neighborhood. Eventually, she would climb the steps into the church she was married in, where her children were baptized and made their first holy communion. A place where she came to pray with others and when the church was empty as she thought God would hear her better.

On the third Sunday of every month, her children and grandchildren gathered at her house for dinner. It felt so good to have a lively house again, with children's laughter and adults catching up on life, mostly about things she had no clue about. But they were all there sitting around the family table, which was all she ever wanted or needed. Her daughters offered to help her clean up, but she refused, saying she liked doing it, and they should gather up their kids and head for home, a good one-hour drive away.

The house returned to quiet as she finished cleaning the last plate. Exhausted, She reached into a cupboard and took down a half-drunk bottle of whiskey. She poured three fingers from the bottle and drank it, wincing at the taste but welcoming the peaceful feeling it gave her. Tomorrow, she would clean the floors and sweep the steps, saying hello to her neighbors and waving to the milkman, who she sometimes wished would stay just a little longer. Maybe another time, she said to herself, maybe.

Mike 2025