Vacant Lot

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I have memories of sunny days, everything the colour of wheat. My parents built a basket weave fence, the best of the best for climbing. I got so good at it, two rungs at a time, I could run up that fence, leap to the other side, into the vacant lot, that close by blessing of my childhood. Leap into grass taller than me, golden walls against the deep summer sky. We had pathways through it, me and my friends, from my house to theirs and back, and down into the depths of the slope, where we could nest like birds, look skyward and expectant, grass dust and grasshoppers settling with us, warm, sheltered and private. Mostly, I remember going there alone, as an easy escape from the judgment of parents’ eyes. I could dream there. I could cry there. The lot did get bought, eventually, when I was maybe thirteen. Jim and Wyn moved in, childless, younger than my parents, and hip in their way. I remember wanting to know her, watching her sunning from my back porch, how she undid her straps to avoid the tan lines, how her hair swept up like flames. The greenery of her verandah waved in the breeze like palms, her haven now, and my loss.



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