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            They were younger then, and happier, and we remembered when they moved into our little neighborhood, excited and grateful, like all of us were when we found our places, our homes, what would be our futures. Or at least that’s how it seemed to us at the time. And maybe it was like that for them, at first, at least.

            They were not as young as some of us were when we first arrived, though, really, and when we sat back and remembered, maybe we weren’t all that young, either. But that didn’t matter. Not at all. We’d gotten here. They’d gotten here. We were all together now, here in our little end of the world. And to some it was the end, but to others it was a beginning, the beginning, the start of something new and thrilling. And we were all excited and grateful.

            And as we got to know them, and they got to know us, there grew among us many various types of bonds, some close, some more casual. Some found them to be exactly what they felt they had been missing in their lives, where others appreciated their infrequent company well enough just as it was, neither too little nor too much.

            And they seemed happy. Sure, we all have fallings out or disagreements, sometimes voices raised that the rest of us could hear, those closer by receiving the greater volume, of course, benefiting because of proximity to the nature of their disagreements. These were to be expected, of course, and we all knew that. Adjustment was something that all of us struggled with in one way or another when we moved into our little corner of the planet.

            But soon, anger passed, rows subsided, bruised feelings healed over, joy and gratitude returned. And we all settled down.

            When the rains came, they would be there, too, celebrating with us, joining us. Some of us would step into our backyards and look to the heavens and raise our arms in thanks, while others scampered around once again like children, helicopter arms and licking drops dripping from our foreheads or eyelashes or ballcap brows. Some uncovered rain barrels, and others dug hasty troughs to direct water to tomatoes and lettuce and carrots.

            One year, they appeared with the rain in shiny green boots, stomping around in the new mud, falling into one another and hanging on and laughing, their celebration or thanks or whatever, near us, alongside us, but apart and separate, a private revelry. And as each rainy season passed, the boots began to wear, grow dull, flop over a bit, no longer fresh and firm, like when they were new.

            And then we began to hear them again. The harsh words, the raised voices, the tempers. Until the rains came again, finally, and one lone dull green boot sat on the porch just to the left of the door. And our little neighborhood had changed.