Our street used to run down through the park, but then they decided there was a park, and stopped building. Our house survived–a lone row house with no partners on either side, grown over with vines and surrounded on all sides by trees.
Our street is a blip now, an aborted stretch into the park just long enough to be our makeshift driveway. No one can find us. We are tucked away, barely six minutes outside of what is legally Philadelphia, and I saw a woodpecker last night. I saw a hummingbird last week. I saw deer, gently grazing on the parkland.
My dad loves this place. I say loves, but I doubt he remembers it consistently. He asked me recently, “who is this little one?” as he played with my daughter, and she laughed, not knowing the tragedy of that, thinking he was joking.
My dad loves birds. Watching them, taking note. I should take him over again soon, before the lights dim again. I should sit outside with him, and watch.
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