At the dark or the light end of the street

 
When I cross the bridge back into town I always glance down the top end of my street.  More often than not there's Babeth in her beanie hat, bending over to paint another fish on the high stone step that runs along the front of her house or there's Josette, stick thin with her hands on her hips, or Laurent, walking up to his van, tall, lanky and melancholic.

I know, from my number ten days, the girth of Babeth's backside, the guffaw she gives out when she stands back, paintbrush in hand, to admire her work, I know that Josette is waiting to pounce on someone to talk to and that Laurent's head is down because Maria has left him again. 
Today I saw a young girl and her dog running away from me, past my old house and towards the river path.  
She was all long hair in the wind and speed and carefreeness.  
I drove down Petit Pied and back up to the Moulin and there she was running towards me.  
As much as I try, I can't reconcile the two ends of the street that I've lived in for 10 years.