Contributor: Taylor Normington
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The other kids in my neighborhood wouldn’t go near Old Man Sylas’ house when they could help it. It was the only home on our street with a wooden stoop. The steps were in a state of dirty disrepair that audibly ached when the children of the neighborhood stepped on them, approaching the front door to knock on a dare or as proof of their courage. It was as though the elderly stoop had never known shoes of that small size.
Mom always said that Sylas had a kind heart and that he used to be very neighborly. Neighborly was the word my mother used to describe those she thought were good people. She always said his wife, Connie, had been dried up and that it hadn’t bothered Sylas but that it had bothered his wife and that’s why she did that thing she did before I was born. I never got to meet her but Tommy,...
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Author:
Taylor Normington
