Our old home finally sold, apparently to a couple with a son attending a local college. I still don’t like the new landscaping, but I guess not everyone enjoys fruit trees and billowy bougainvillea buds. All along the streets, the yards looked fuller. Then I remembered a conversation at a party last month, where I learned most of the wild rabbit that normally feed on the flowers had not yet returned since last October’s wildfires. No coyotes on the course this trip. No awkward encounters with migrant workers. No water at the elementary school fountain anymore, either.
It was easy to figure out which candidates on Tuesday’s ballot were local by the concentration of signs in front lawns. This is a very politically active area and one of the things I miss about the place. I missed the hills too, because I hit the summit of the biggest one without even realizing it!
As I cooled down, my former neighbor saw my car and came over and we caught up on her home renovations, the latest antics from the neighborhood nut job and what we knew about a murder a few streets away. She never asked why I wasn't running the marathon, sparing me from recalling the race two years ago that would restrict my physical capabilities forever. Instead, she said it was good to see me again and asked me to stop by sometime soon.
I might have been overcome with emotion as I pulled away from the place. Instead, I left with my six-word memoir that I’d been asked last week to provide by trail runner Jeff in Florida.