I had been watching the men working on the lot across from my office for quite a while. There was a house there that suddenly one August day .....was not.
I thought not much more about it. These things, houses and people, come and go. One is best served to not resist the flow of the tide, but rather observe and remember.
I settle into the flow of my days, of classes and students, of new names and faces. I settle Emily into her new routines and smile to myself as she begins to socially blossom. My smart ass sense of humor flows directly through my daughter. This does my heart proud.
By the beginning of December the work men come back to the lot across the street.
I am getting tired, although I dearly love my job and the students.
Later that night, I am leaving my late class. The sun has already set and it is getting cold. I walk towards the parking lot.
I watched the men pour the concrete that day. The tug of longing to stick my finger in the rough, cold cement and make my mark surges up, a remnant of childhood.
I look around. Surely, no one will stop a professor on the way back to her car. It will just look like I dropped something and bent down to retrieve the errant object. My finger touches the concrete. Still damp and rougher than sandpaper.
My giggle erupts after I finish, snap the picture and walk elegantly back to my car.
I remain incorrigible.