And we stood in the middle of our garden, unsheltered, unprotected, and looked around at the turbulence of the lives we backed onto, sat next to, the lives of the neighborhood, and it shook clear our apathy until we saw again what our life here had been. There was the sledge our father had made, the one we took to school, the envy of all, and the ghosts of swings and climbing frames that had held us, and dropped us; the sounds of our tears.
