by Wells Oliver

The neighborhood is not what it used to be. Many people who have moved in are not like you and me. We have different dreams from these people who now live on the street where you grew up, where you used to play baseball in the street with tennis balls and rackets with your friends from school. The people down the street have not invited us over for dinner but when they moved in your mother bought them a cake and we said the polite things to them that new neighbors say and we shook hands. Like you're supposed to. I am not sure how it works where you live now but if you will remember in our neighborhood you shake hands. I've always taught you that. Do you remember Mr. Todd?

Surely you remember Mr. Todd. He lived in the house down at the end of the block and in the wintertime would collect all of the leaves that we would rake into our ditch. That you would rake into the ditch. You and your little brother. I remember most years I would be inside trying to put together a good fire and would watch through our windows and see you and your little brother out there piled ridiculously high with coats and mittens and things and how unhappy you would be with all of it, really just protesting all the while, every movement some wild gesture, and your brother too. Do you remember son? God, how much clothing your mother would put on you, and then you would come back inside angry at the yard work and sweating under the weight of all of that clothing. I can close my eyes and be right back there, with the sounds of a football game on the television and your mother in the kitchen working on something and the smells and the sounds and, you know your mother, really just the sounds of her asking me what's taking so long with the fire.

I wonder if you remember.

Well Mr. Todd is still in that house down at the end of the block but he is much too old to be collecting leaves any longer. It doesn't seem like anyone really cleans their yards any longer anyway, with the way things are going these days. Listen to me, saying these days. I know what you're thinking, son, but it's the truth. One day you will understand. One day you will have a son of your own and you will watch him rake leaves in the yard and throw the rakes around furiously and though he might not understand it at the time, these are the things you will always hold on to, both of you. Moments like that will become the markers of a life. And what is left for a person when those things end?

You have to remember.

With Mr. Todd, most days you just see him sitting on his porch and watching with his gray eyes the decay of this neighborhood and all of these people moving in and our friends going. You know that he is thinking these things without saying them. Men like Mr. Todd don't need to use words. He even sits out there in the wintertime and you know how it can get here. Sometimes he just nods at us as we pass. Your mother says it's like he's keeping watch, like he's putting up a fight against time and the things that it can to do people and to neighborhoods and to all of us. Your mother has theories. You know how she can be.

The Delaneys left last year. The Brittons are moving next month. It is a strange thing to witness. The Thomasons, Brightleys, and Cousinses have all left. You used to play with little Kenny Cousins, baseball with the tennis balls and rackets. It was incredibly funny.

Do you remember?

And son it's not that I blame them but if you look around and you think to yourself about the block now and the block then well you just have to reach certain conclusions. And it's just so crushing really, when your mother and I, when we go for our walks in the morning and we get to the end of the block and there is Mr. Todd on his porch with the newspaper and we look at each other and he smiles and son let me tell you there's nothing in the exchange except the mutual understanding between two men that things have changed. Surely you remember him? He asks about you sometimes and I tell him that you have moved to the city and I try to explain your job to him but you know he doesn't understand that stuff.

Your mother and I are getting along well. The seasons are turning again and the leaves are piling up in the front yard. You know how it gets here. I sometimes tell your mother that we will have to get you and your brother home this year so someone can rake the leaves. I guess I am just trying to make her laugh but it never seems to work. I think that we will hire someone to come and take care of them soon enough, but I tell you it is just so strange out there. Really, though, the both of you should make it back. Would you consider it if I promised no yard work? Think it over.

Pass along our love to your brother if you should talk to him. Your mother says that he is still in Kansas City, but you know how she can be. She always has a theory.

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