on the street where we lived

Just a few years ago we lived in a small, developing subdivision on the edge of the urban boundary. The lot next to ours had yet to be built upon, so from the dining room table a panorama of the coast foothills provided us with a view more expensive than the rent.

However, the view from the front of our place was near windowless, and even from the one looking west, all that could be glimpsed was the back of a row of townhouses (which likely matched more closely to the rent we paid). The good thing, though, was that someone in one of those units parked his or her basketball hoop where the road - to be completed at some unknown point in the future- met an abrupt end against a patch of briars. It was just out of view from any of my home's vistats. And that, most likely for that reason, was exactly where my son wanted to be.

He was there as often as possible, playing made up games with made up rules and enacting scenes of his forecasted NBA triumphs. He didn't mind digging the ball out of the briar. He loved to have neighbor kids play, but more often than not would get frustrated at their lack of focus on 'the game'. And, sometimes, sometimes I got to play too.

I'm no "balla". Not even close. But, he let me play anyway. Likely because he wanted to have someone to laugh at. We both laughed. Belly laughs to complement games of PIG and HORSE and "Mom! You can't dribble like that!"

Having lived in this town 16 years now, I've called home at least six different addresses. From time to time nostalgia takes over and I can't help but drive by one or two or all of them. When I gave into that impulse tonight, this particular sight pulled a heart string.

Not long after we moved from the town house, that empty lot was built upon. Gone was the view, at least from my old dining room window. But, the hoop remains, and so does a part of my heart.