Flagrant Fragrant by Heron Djenne Canvasback

Neighborhood Watch (memoir/drama)

            I lived in Sycamore Heights, which is a crossroads community of 'old souls' teenagers and twenty-somethings but young-at-heart middle-agers. Everyone at least either paints, sings, photographs, writes, draws, sculps, films, or plays an instrument. It is a neighborhood of storytellers, with advice through the tales' morals. At sunset, on Saturdays, neighbors pour into the streets with their potluck-style treats and artistic talents for impromptu block parties.  Locals spray-painted artwork on the concrete townhouses; these townhouses created blocks with its rows facing each other with the street in between. Children drew and wrote in chalk on the sidewalks and asphalt streets. The community center still has an after-school program, a summer camp, a flea market every Saturday morning, a daycare, and church services on Sunday mornings. Forests surrounded Sycamore Heights.

            A chill surrounded that late-May weekend, despite the summer heat invading and occupying earlier that month. The drizzle dampened in interrupted soakings. It was like the sun and rain covered for each other during their smoke breaks. The anxious but bubbly weather-people smiled like the live TV camera were aimed guns. Neighbors mowed their lawns stubbornly despite regrowth days later. There was no dry grass for the wisecracking unofficial 'welcoming committee' to chew. Flowers sprung up like the newly-walking children ripping them up like they're in a rush to find something important. The windswept pollen seemed like tangible sunlight but sprinkled like the rain. Chalk drawings rolled away into the sewer grates or we smeared into mixed patches, which resembled messy palettes, by people jogging inside from splashing raindrops. A popular solution was rain-jackets.

            My good friend then was Alexis. Her expressive expresso eyes always shined like movie screens. Her permed molasses-black hair was straight as a mare's mane. Her coco skin brightened when darkened by the sunlight. She was a contemporary stylish girl. During a sleepover at my house, Alexis, and I flipped through TV channels, and stumbled upon a Who Wants to be a Millionaire marathon. She wanted to watch it because her dad bought five lottery tickets since the mega-millions jackpot was exceptionally high; her mom believed that chancy gambling was a waste of guaranteed money.

            Despite the contestants being unfamiliar, we cheered and booed as if we knew them. She asked me what I would do with a million dollars. I answered that I'd use it to help my single-mom, donate to charities, and buy what I wanted at eight-years-old. She said that she'd save the money for her future and help her parents. We played-pretend as snobbish rich kids, celebrities, and business tycoons.  Sleep soon defeated us like reality.

            My mom woke us up the following wishy-washy morning, noting that Alexis' mom was picking her up in an hour. At breakfast, we discussed Who Wants to be a Millionaire, which annoyed my twin sister. Alexis' mom arrived looking as happy as the game-show's one grand prize winner of the night did. Alexi's mom told her that they were going shopping for something nice to wear; "It's a surprise!". As Alexis and I hugged goodbye, I overheard her mom chirp to my mom that they were planning on moving out of the neighborhood, but that we were invited to the going-away party that they'd host.

            A month later, the party was in an events' room in the beloved but outdated community recreation center, Alexis whispered to me, requesting that I keep a secret. I agreed, but surprises made me anxious; they still do.  She smiled even brighter than ever before saying "Dad was right. We won. They won't tell me how much though." I hugged her and asked if we would still be friends. She reassured me, after that day, but neither of us ever called the other.

To this day, the weather consistently changes like a moody person, but the community center progressed. Its mucus-colored linoleum floors are now ecru and umber tiles. The white walls are now taupe, cream, and pepper-gray. The carpet is now cigarette-ends brown, not spilled-ink blue. Updated technology has replaced the toys and tools that I used so much that I almost felt like I co-owned them. There are movie nights hosted in the party room every Friday, as if Alexis still lives around here.

The neighborhood is about the same, except everyone is older or someone new. Sometimes when I wander my familiar routes, I think of Alexis and I playing, and conversations that I forgot the dialogue to. Most of the time, I think in the present-tense. Recollecting should never become a pastime. Today is for tomorrow, not yesterday.