It was silent in my backyard until two quick bangs. The neighbor's dog often flinched with every sound. Garbage trucks out in the street rang loudly off the fences. And as he barked, the dog's collar jingle-snapped like a lure in the water. Anxiously thirsty, he lapped from the bowl left in a patch of shade in the yard. The dog followed our small footsteps along the perimeter of the fencing. The windows of houses shutting with gentle bangs, and the lights switching on in the street making tiny humming sounds.
I was awfully fond of that buzzing sound; you never heard it when it rained and the water was sloshing hurriedly along the troughs of the streets. Heavy rains snuck under the bulkhead in our backyard—while thunder rolled banging around the house—streaming from the patio to the fence.
When we were young, we'd hop those fences trying hard not to make even a silent sound. We'd make our way through the maps of yards careful to never let our tennis shoed feet touch concrete.
And if we reached the end, where grass met street, we'd jump back over fence after fence past our own yard until we heard the sound of our mother's voice run like water from beyond the garbage truck banging. Her voice higher than anything else on the street. She stood on the steps unleashing that ice-water voice until we'd forgo fences and use the gate with its clinking sound announcing our return to the backyard.
Apologies were trapped by walls and fences, until we felt so guilty my brother let out a whimpering sound and we retreated to the house from our night-covered yard.
Danielle Susi is a writer living in Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Storyacious, Squawk Back, Knee-Jerk Magazine, Lines+Stars, DIALOGIST, and many others. She is the recipient of a writer's grant and residency from the Vermont Studio Center. You can read more of her work at DanielleSusi.com.
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