20 July 2011

July 20, 2011

This is where we all belong. Right here. In these east side fixer-uppers with the old, old trees in the front yards. We belong here: looking out of windows. We belong here: holding our daughters’ hands.

There are so few houses I look at and think: I could live there.

When I was in middle school, I could almost do a kickflip. The board would roll but I’d be on the ground already, watching it happen, watching the trick finish without me.

There was a neighbor who thought I was really great at skateboarding for some reason. He’d ask me to do tricks, but I’d always tell him, Later, Tomorrow maybe, I’m tired from all the skateboarding I did just before you got here. I didn’t want him to find out I wasn’t really that good.

Being good at something and having somebody think I was good at something used to be the exact same thing.

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