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exiting the driver’s side and
then, in a most gentlemanly
fashion, circling the car to
open the passenger door.
What can that girl do but join
her grandfather on the wide
sidewalk? Together, the two
assess the Cregan place—
a huge, upscale tract home.
One of those houses that
resembles its huge, upscale
neighbors to a creepy
degree. The houses come
in three hues—beige, gray,
and not-quite-white. Not much
to distinguish one from another
except the number of stories,
size of the garage, and gravel
color. Even the plants—native
Texas species, known to thrive
in this climate—are the same.
All, no doubt, must be approved
by the homeowners’ association.
Part of me likes the conformity.
The order. Part of me wonders
if anything ever disturbs it.
Wind? Rain? Hurricane?
Birth? Divorce? Argument?
What difference does it make?
THE DOOR FLIES OPEN
