Strolling Down Sycamore Lane
A semi-autobiographical fictional tale
She nestled in her earbuds, deciding against listening to her audiobook or playlist. She wished to be free to contemplate her own thoughts without intrusion. After saying goodbye to her puppy, she ventured out into the morning sunshine already radiating the pavement and began her walk.
Twelve months of isolation had taken its toll both in her appearance and persona. Her countenance so transformed she hardly recognized the forlorn woman gazing back at her in the mirror. And so, she had withdrawn and grew increasingly despondent.
The new year had sparked a resurgence of energy. By the time Spring appeared, her determination to reclaim herself had taken root.
Three months earlier, she couldn’t make it to the end of her block before her chest was caught in a vise grip. Now, she could easily traverse the three-mile loop around her neighborhood; the only thing curtailing her stroll was the stiffness of an old Achilles injury.
She was regaining her strength.
It was trash day in her normally pristine neighborhood. The air was rancid with the waste of suburban living sweating in the summertime heat. Only a week ago, the street was perfumed by abundantly blooming jasmine, the aroma so heady it enchanted her nostrils and tickled her throat. The latest heatwave had shriveled the flowers to dehydrated, paper-thin remnants, blown away by the evening breezes.
She thought about the series of bad to worse dates she had had as of late. One assaulted her in broad daylight, another rejected her when she wouldn’t agree to share her affection with a third party, and still another left her battered and bruised. All three were “appalled” when they heard the stories of her previous encounters and had pledged to the moon and back they would be perfect gentlemen. She was now exceedingly wary of such assurances.
It was time to trust her instincts instead of hollow promises.
Rounding the corner, she entered the main thoroughfare. The grand entrance to her community was shaded on either side by stately sycamores. This time of year, their trunks cracked and peeled, revealing the pale jade bark beneath. When the light filtered through, they looked like vertical mosaics. Their canopies were lush and green, basking in the sun before they turned the colors of cinnamon and fire.
The earthy incense of fresh-cut grass greeted her and flooded her with memories: bocce ball in the park, her late husband teaching their sons the importance of proper lawn care, bygone family reunions rife with the laughter of numerous generations.
She smiled at the gardeners busy with the task of tending to neighborhood beauty. A certified brown thumb, she envied their landscaping craftsmanship.
This park of her walk was the most strenuous, as it had just enough incline to make her occasionally pause to catch her breath. But each time she struggled through, she felt her resilience escalating — her need to briefly suspend her progress becoming less and less. She was sure her ability to traverse the hill without interruption was just upon the horizon.
Unexpectedly, she found herself a bit giddy about her last couple of dates. They faintly hinted at the promise of something special and she permitted her mind to daydream about what could be. She wondered if either of them thought the same or if they considered her one in a series of temporary flirtations. She doubted she could trust her own judgment in the matter.
Still, the possibilities delighted her for a brief moment.
From time to time a lizard or two would scurry across the sidewalk, swiftly scampering into the underbrush for safety. She envisioned a miniature reptile colony living beneath the boxwoods. The males would tell tall tales among themselves of near misses with giants. Then they would attempt to woo the females with their knowledge of fine insect dining and gyrating dance moves.
At the streetlight, she met up with an elderly man who donned a plaid cap atop his round face. He reminded her of her grandfather, and she felt an instant kinship. They crossed the intersection together. He continued straight as she made the left turn to return home. Her heart hoped they would cross paths again.
Sweat began cascading from her brow, stinging her eyes. She chastised herself for letting her need to see clearly take a back seat to vanity and vowed to order a few sweatbands when she arrived home. Suddenly, the sprinklers on either side of her popped up, giving her a start. The gardeners were testing them, and they disappeared as quickly as they arose only to spurt up again further down the street. Their brief appearances seemed to beckon her along, providing a much-welcomed mist to cool her down.
The lane was dappled with fellow residents accomplishing their daily exercise: The retired neighbor in the yellow shirt continually lapping the street on his bike, the numerous pairs of pedestrians exchanging their daily gossip, the high schooler training for cross country tryouts, and the young mother deftly handling two Yorkies while pushing her toddler in a stroller.
Her own two children were now men. She had successfully completed the role of early motherhood and was now multitasking the demands of middle age. Later in the day, she would return to the undertaking of seeking employment. She was fully aware of her capabilities and shortcomings, choosing only positions she was confident she would excel in. Exhilarated by the prospects, she submitted each application and waited. She had yet to have an employer recognize her potential.
It was only a matter of time before her experience captured someone’s eye, she reassured herself.
To extend her exercise, she wandered into the three wavy cul de sacs that jutted perpendicular from the side of the street. The first was her favorite. Considered to be prime real estate, it was lined with perfectly manicured yards and dotted with luxury vehicles. There was no tract home in sight, a rarity in her master-planned community. Each custom abode was unique in its architecture, yet they all seemed to belong together in their understated elegance.
The next two were part of her townhome development. The builder had taken measures to abate their similarities — a balcony here, a patio there, and an even larger patio with a view at the end of the street. They were roosted together like a family: close enough to provide security and comfort, but not so crowded that they lost their individuality. Their interiors decorated to celebrate the personalities of their occupants.
As she neared her corner unit, she speculated on what type of relationship — if any — was in her future. Would she, once again, opt for the fixer-upper? Realizing after way too much time that no amount of spit and polish was going to mend what was irrevocably broken. Would she settle once more for less-than-perfect? Providing just the bare level of comfort, but not enough compatibility to share her passions or spark joy. Will the razzle-dazzle of affluence and attraction burn hot, only to, yet again, fizzle out as quickly as it ignited?
She felt like a mature Goldilocks, searching for the fit that was just right.
Her dog was patiently waiting by the staircase as she reentered her home. Elated to see her mistress, the puppy wildly wagged her tail in anticipation of a scratch behind the ear or a belly rub. Would anyone again be filled with such unadulterated glee at her appearance?
For now, she decided to bask in the purity of the moment and table such ponderings until her next stroll down Sycamore Lane.
