To the Alley Behind My Childhood Home

Overgrown honeysuckle reached well over the tops of the fences; no one bothering to trim them, letting go as wild as they can. The jasmine spilling across. A yellow and white fury of sweet.

Nora and I take the alley as short cut to our houses, passing by the backs of our neighbors lives. I hear a couple sitting on their back patio talking about their oldest child. I stop to pick honeysuckle, break off the bottom for that tiny drop I catch on my tongue. I can’t tell if I can taste it or if I just think I do. The couple’s voices are rising, though only slightly. I can’t tell if they are happy, if the news is good.

We spend much of our summer days spying on our parents, our older sisters, the neighbors. We walk down the alley as quietly as we can, listening for any conversation. We think we will uncover the secrets everyone is hiding; we are sure there are many and that knowing them will explain whatever the adults don’t want us to know.

We don’t imagine the day we will hear a secret we don’t want to know. We think any secret is a good one and that we will always be able to keep it. We never think we are too young to know such details. We certainly don’t think a secret would ever hurt us. We never suspect there are things we don’t want to know.

We can’t un-hear it. We can’t undo it, can’t go back. But we decide to stop listening. We decide we like being 10 years old and not adults and not privy to all the information. We walk the alley, talking loudly. We vow never to tell. I never do.