My parents are divorced, so we have two houses that we alternate between each week. My dad's house is planted among others on a tall hill. It rests a short distance from the others, separated by stone walls, fences, bright green grass, and sprinklers. Our neighbors all have children, most of which have moved out, but the ones across the street are younger than me and my siblings. My step brother used to go over to play with them, but they got into a fight, and the parents warranted a three month break period. For an entire three months he was not allowed to speak with, converse with, or call the neighbors that lived right across the street. I wonder what he could have done to deserve that. Whatever it was, I'm sure he probably did not deserve it, but the neighbors across the street sure thought he did.
My mom's house is falling apart, cracking at the seams, but we live there anyway. Our two cats meow and beg for attention and food at any interval possible; they prop themselves up on your chair at dinnertime, and paw and sniff at you until you sneak a little bit to them underneath the table. The ash gray one, Rafael, is scared by anything, hides from new people, and will only tolerate my mom, sister, and me. The other, with cream colored fur that stands up like static electricity, meows constantly, and fears nothing; probably not even death. We'd like to believe that they're sweet, well-meaning, little kitties, but when they dig their claws into the couch despite countless previous warnings, they prove otherwise.
