Reflections on Union Street.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me.
Forgive me, Father, I know not what I do.
A paper mache masterpiece of canary-colored leaves decorates the concrete, whose almost-squares are dampened darker from last night’s rain. If I walk slowly enough, I can perceive green stains leaking through, too: moss, erupting in the moisture. It is all yellow, and it should look happier, less dreary, than it does. Maple leaves turned yellow by photosynthesis’s seasonal slow-down; some skinnier leaves I cannot identify metamorphose to a vibrant blond, their slender stems like minuscule trails of blood staining the sidewalk.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me.
Forgive me, Father, I know not what I do.
328 Union Street sticks out to me; its black shutters contrast its white siding, with a front door painted a violent cherry. The Maraschino variety, unnatural. Three jack-o-lanterns and two piles of firewood furnish the front stoop and its steps, and I imagine the family standing around the kitchen counter, carving “scary” faces into their pumpkins. The father holds the knife for the youngest child; it's not a toy for a child so young. Perhaps the children attend the private school looming behind their home; their backyard is overshadowed by a parking lot. And there is 319 a little further up the street, on the north side of the road. It boasts jack-o-lanterns, as well: six of them, as a matter of fact. It has a full front porch, complete with furniture that is probably nearly-never used; probably not even on Halloween night, though maybe on a warm summer evening when the children cannot help themselves from running in the shade of the maple tree. Its neighbor, 315, is decked in festive, fall-ish ivy. The maple tree that sheds in its yard bears the weight of a tree house, and five cars are packed in its petite driveway.
The north side of the street is lined with cars, suburban garden variety mini-vans and sedans, punctuated with a gray Corvette in front of 305; an unlikely choice in such a family-oriented neighborhood.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon them.
Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do.
West of Scott Street, fewer trees tower above the street, cars, and homes, except the two exploding over 221’s lawn, already cluttered with faded children’s toys and an unemployed green rake. Its across-the-street-neighbor, 220, is another too-new-to-be-true home, olive green siding and cream trim and a half-wrap-around porch and porch furniture that still have tags on them. The front door of 218 has an artistic rendition of an owl hanging on the door, and the only truly distinct thing about it is the neon red bush by the leaf-littered driveway. 218 has the kind of porch I dream about: not only screened in, but truly a “front room,” with walls and big windows; in my dreams, I am reading the New York Times on a Sunday afternoon on a couch that swallows me, and my husband brings me a mug of steaming coffee, and he says that he loves me. Even my dreams are privileged.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me.
Forgive me, Father, I know not what I do.
The air is full of light chirping and deep warbling; the air is full of prayer. The wooden heels of my Chelsea boots kiss the concrete. The bell on Edman Chapel sounds ominous, not holy, from here, just a couple blocks away. Leaves rustle as the wind runs through them, beside them, beneath them, threatening to tear them from their towers.
Why are the birds still here when winter is quickly approaching? Why are the Christians still here, accruing all this wealth only to share with one another?
I hear the rumble of the train and the blare of its horn, enthusiastic school children giggling and screaming during their recess as I make my way back east, past houses I have already seen. A stand-alone garage bears a crudely written, “Please have your passport ready” above its door.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us.
Forgive us, Father, we know not what we do.
words by Lilli Ferry and photo by Arianna Taralson