9th Street

They both sighed silently when they saw the E 9th St sign, niggling memories unspoken. "Let's see if there is a 12," Francia suggested. "Yes," answered Marley. She turned left, they scanned the houses for numbers, shrubs blocking many of the doors and mailboxes, overgrown, a little wild, tumbledy, verdant, weedy, pretty like an old eccentric aunty. "Ha, there it is," she said. The house was green and wood with a porch and three worn chairs. They sat in the car staring, just as a very old woman came through the door carrying a glass. As though they were watching television instead of a real human, they stared right at her. The woman looked up just then and smiled and waved as though there was always someone sitting in a car in front of her house staring at her.