Curse my broken neighborhood

 I always see the little children walking alone from school. As their parents wait for them at home while smoking a cigarette. Those same kids are crossing the cracked, rusted street as I watch them from afar making sure they cross safely. Those kids who stay home alone accidentally cause fires making the bright red trucks make so much noise as they come to this part of town for the 100th time. Curse my broken neighborhood. 

The old man who lives two houses away from me is always speaking to my brother and me. My naive extroverted brother is always making conversation. Though his legs work perfectly fine, he insists on using an elevated chair to go up the stairs, as his white, small dog barks for him, sensing him coming through. The way his smoking habits affect my own life. As the disgusting smell of cigarettes passes through the thin walls. The urge I have to tell him to stop, to think of others, but I stay silent. Curse my broken neighborhood 

My three cousins. The pair of twins who look so much alike but so different. The littlest one with the pale skin and blue eyes, the polar opposite of her older sister's olive skin and dark brown eyes. As I walk to their house, and pass the local park hearing the boys play basketball aggressively. As the local kids stare into my soul. Annoyance creeps up behind my back but I remind myself how children are. As I got closer and closer to my three cousins' house, I saw their neighbor who almost scared me to death. His run-down, stained clothes. His bloodshot eyes scan through the neighborhood as he inhales the nicotine from his cigarette.  He looks drunk, but I say nothing. Curse my broken neighborhood. 

Now as I make it to my house. Passing the corner store as I walk to the front of my white house. Passing the trash, the disgusting smell of people's leftover food that they dare to leave in my trash can overflows my senses. Looking at our overgrown lawn that desperately needs a trim. Looking at all the cars passing by in a rush. The random people glancing my way as I make my way into my home. Getting the mail, checking as if there would ever be anything for me. As I think I can finally relax there goes the sirens of another fire. Oh, curse my broken neighborhood. 

I smile to myself as I look through the window watching the bright red fire trucks race by. From the annoying little kids to the cracks in the road, to the old lazy neighbor whose cigarette smell slips through the thin walls, the loud basketball boys, my cousin's drunk neighbor, the loud cars, and even the disgusting leftover food smell that comes from the garbage outside my house. It’s still what makes it all home. Oh, how I love my broken neighborhood.