A cool spring breeze brushes through the street on this fresh April night. The ground has yet to shed its chill, but the conversations of neighbors that drift with the wind are warm filled with the hope of summer to come. I climb up my aluminium ladder propped up in front of our, now candy apple red, garage.

The trim is a little too high for me to reach even from the ladder, but it’s a quick job so I don’t bother extending the ladder for my convenience. As I work in the soft glow of the lamplight above me, I hear the distinct laughter of one of the veterans on our street in the distance. Everyone on the street knew him, with his ginger hair and sure smile, he was a hard man to miss. His hair was always in a military buzz though he looked far from being a military man, with his larger-than-average stocky-but-not-short stature. He was a prison architect in his time, now newly retired, he knew everything there was to know about the make of a prison, and I would be lying if I said that he didn’t know everyone on our street.

I heard him as he greeted everyone that walked by his driveway, with a smile and a firm laugh and handshake, I never saw this of course because I never turned around. He was leaving tomorrow, moving to a different city, never to come back to this street again. And I am terrible at saying goodbye. I just let this scene soak in my mind and imprint the moment in my senses. I swat away a mosquito. Time to call it a day, I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow.