The sun dipped low over Maple Street, casting a warm glow on the porches where Mr. Higgins sat in his rocking chair, polishing his old leather boots. Across the way, Mrs. Carter hung her laundry, pausing to wave at the kids riding their bikes past the oak tree that had stood there since she was a girl. “How’s the garden looking, Ed?” she called out, her voice carrying on the gentle breeze. Mr. Higgins looked up, a smile creasing his weathered face. “Got the tomatoes in last week. Should be ripe by July Fourth, if the rabbits don’t get to ’em.”
Down at the community center, the Tuesday night bingo game was just getting started. Marge unfolded her lucky dauber, the one with a chipped handle she’d had since 1987, and set it next to her stack of cards. “Heard you went to the doctor yesterday,” she said to Betty, who was arranging her markers in neat rows. Betty sighed, pushing a strand of gray hair behind her ear. “Just a checkup. Says my blood pressure’s a little high, so I’ve got to cut back on salt. No more of Mabel’s potato salad at the potlucks, I guess.” Marge clucked her tongue. “Pfft, tell her to make you a small batch without salt. She’ll do it. That woman’s got a heart of gold.”
The caller announced B-12, and a chorus of “Nope”s filled the room. Frank, the retired mailman, leaned over to whisper to Jim, his old buddy from the factory. “Remember when we used to work the night shift? Used to sneak coffee in those tin mugs and complain about the foreman’s whistle?” Jim chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “And then we’d race home to watch the sunrise over the river. Those were the days, huh?” Frank nodded, tapping his bingo card with a pen. “Sure were. But this? This ain’t so bad either.”