It’s been five days since the man living three doors down died.
There was yellow police tape all around his front yard, strewn up like lazy birthday streamers between the trees, enough parked police cars (those with lights and not) to clog my too narrow street and the wary, almost tiptoeing onlookers on the outskirts, they with the hushed tones and darting eyes. The mind races in a happenstance like this one, tries to make sense of what it sees, this scene borrowed from the movies.
Who shot who? What drugs were involved? And I thought I lived in a safer neighborhood than this.
I added myself to those curious onlookers straightaway, wanting to ask someone, but not knowing anyone enough to do so, each of us in search of answers. Wanting to ask one of the policemen so intent on their reports, but not doing so. Instead, it suits my purposes to peek, wonder in quiet and hope to piece together a story with any possible clues. Only there aren’t any. No body or bullet holes or bloodstains. And it’s as quiet as it always is, where the number of cats here outnumbers anyone else outside and the bird conversations take up more airspace than the human ones.
