After a light nap that only required the peaking sunlight to awake, I pull myself up to see the house doused in yellow glow of the afternoon summer. It is the soft place between reality and dream where every sense is intensified, every imagination distrusted, and every sound echoing in a muted mellow way. Nothing moves, like I’m stuck in this jello compound.
I peak through the dusty shades—finger prints on the the top forth one where my hand always lifts it to see— a burqa from the outside, I furtively, not that I would be seen, glace across my pointy green lawn to see my neighbour sift through his mail. He seems Latino in his facial features, and the rest of his body’s plump and round. I cannot see his face now, for he is too far. He sits quietly on the bottom step of his house with the stairs that leads to the first floor (though his garage is on land level). He is the only person that regularly sits out on his porch steps, except the children, just sitting there, looking from side to side like he’s expecting something outrageous to happen. Or maybe he’s just thinking about his job, or his wife.