Late at night, we claim the street. Families are united under their respective roofs, cars scarcely share our road, and we roam free together. In the darkness of the eleventh hour, I forego all inhibition: I sing, I dance, I run, I skip, I stroll. My good boy alternates his habits, too. He wanders, unleashed, then chases his shadow, then becomes my shadow, only to succumb to the distraction of smells, and wander again. We like to walk together in the fresh suburban night because it feels small and private.
One spring evening the stars were particularly bright, so I sat on the sidewalk in front of my house to look at them. My dog joined me, for closeness, and then we saw a shooting star. Who knew we had those in Maplewood?