In the before time when people were either homegrown and behaved or outsiders and confusing and my siblings and I were the only ones in between, the neighbor bought a television with a spikey antennae and sturdy legs and mahogany sides. And of course we crowded at their windows, crowded puppy-eyed like we all did at old Ms. Mary’s the day before market days when she baked cookies to sell and we hoped for broken bits and bowl scrapings. And we kinda crouched ready to sprint away, too, ready to run the way we did when we watched the older boys face off in the park fascinated by their talk and swagger, but knowing you could find yourself face down and bruised if you got caught. The television was off almost always when we peeked. Mostly they only turned it on for the news. And that wasn’t much different from the radios at home, except there were pictures and people, though we hoped they’d put on the shows we’d only glimpsed at that one day the neighbor’s sister who smoked and wore her robe all day had come to visit from out of town. And they were pretty stuck up anyway, them being most our neighbors with their pressed collars and flowery dresses and perfectly mowed lawns who all worked at the same plant and nodded over their tidy newspapers. And our mom would shake her head and mutter under her breath that this place was populated by automatons, but she’d taught us to smile and swallow our words and say yes, of course even when we disagreed, just as she always did. Which is one of the things mom whispered about on the phone when she thought dad couldn’t hear. But when she saw us peeking over the neighbor’s window, ears straining to pick up the voices in the magic box, she suggested we find our courage and remember the only spaces we’d ever find were the ones we’d make for ourselves and we should knock on their door and offer to do chores or something for a chance to sit on the floor and maybe even pick a show.
