Mrs. Evelyn lives across the street from the Midtown Center,
a small white building, less than three blocks from our house (plus a short-cut the
kids taught me, which cuts off another 200 yards). I never knew it, but it was Mrs. Evelyn’s garden I’ve been
admiring all these months, and her husband who seems to be perpetually picking
weeds, or watering it. She’s tall
and weathered and sings in the choir at her church on the west side. I can’t figure out if the kids respect
Mrs. Evelyn, or are down right scared of her, but either way, she knows how to
keep cuss words from leaking and a pair of pants from leaving the waist.
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