There is a house I walk by once a week or so. It’s a brown brick featureless box with big windows that always have curtains over them. There’s a broken pram near the carport. Often a big ugly sounding dog straining to get past the gate that keeps it in the back garden.
We were out particularly early one day, the Smalls and I, and I saw four children, two each side of the car, standing in silence waiting to get in. It was eerie. They weren’t talking, pushing each other, twirling their hair, scuffing their shoes. They were just, waiting. Too quiet.
Every time I walk past that house now I look at it hard. I wonder what goes on in there. I never hear those children. The front garden is always scraggy with bits of broken pram or scooters or car parts. Tonight I could see a big screen television going behind the curtains. I’ve never seen any adults. I keep wondering… wondering if I’ll see that house on the front of a local paper with headlines screaming about neglect or abuse… or whether I’m just concocting scenarios to explain what I don’t understand.