chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

blind curve…

Our street was one block long. It had been carved into a small hill above a large cemetery and in the span of just ten houses rose steeply from its flat, lower section with a blind curve in the middle. Our house was on the curve and our days and nights were punctuated with the beeps and blasts of car horns as drivers warned any oncoming traffic — and kids playing in the street — that they were coming through.

On two occasions, visitors to houses uphill from ours failed to crank their wheels toward the curb when they were parking. Unobserved, their cars rolled down the hill and smashed into the corner of our house, twice giving my mother an excuse to reconfigure the room off the kitchen we called the service porch.

The neighbors exclaimed how lucky it was that none of the kids were in the path of the runaway car, but my mother never replied to these comments. While I knew she wasn’t homicidal, her message was clear: she would have immeasurably preferred the uninterrupted convenience of a child-free life.

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