Sunday evening and the cars still speed past our yard. Through the neighbour’s barred-up window, I imagine her sit as she listens to this, our fights, the cold fall wind as it sweeps through.

The solitude of her one piece of toast on her one kitchen plate is almost enough to swallow her whole.

Sunny Saturdays in June and the screen door never gets shut. The boys are out back building their own little world out of rocks, branches with leaves still attached. They give themselves names for just this place and fill it with kings and dragons.

No one sees you here as you watch from your kitchen window.