Some time ago a little girl appeared at the duplex next door to us.
Her name is Hannah.
Violet talks to her through the fence every chance she gets. They want to play together. Bad. So far, I have managed to talk my way out of a "playdate". Here, in the crumbling city, a playdate would flag me as a free babysitter and these are the kind of people who "forget" to retrieve their children and before you know it you're making macaroni and cheese for her and finding pajamas that fit because she'll have to spend the night unless you call the police and you aren't quite prepared to take such drastic measures...
I can't get involved with these people. They have a yard full of bagged beer cans and stolen scrapped aluminum siding.
My sweet Violet whispers to Hannah through a chink in the fence. She weaves a yarn about Bolt the super dog and Hannah stares back, unsure of how to contribute to the make-believe. So, instead, she tells us about her family.
Her Mommy is in jail.
Her Daddy was in jail last night, but he got out.
She's staying with Angie.
Her bubbles ran out.
Violet has approximately 10 gallons of bubble solution. I gave some to Hannah, through the fence. It's all I can do.
