I'm sitting in a driveway (don't have one at home),
listening to the wind rustle through palm trees (don't have those either . . . palm trees I mean),
watching Jack master his ripstick on the perfectly paved black street (no potholes),
not a car in sight (life without traffic is almost surreal).
Every building in sight is one story, faux Spanish style, designed and painted in coordinating colors (my real neighborhood is nothing like that).
The pool is steps away. Flowers of white, hot pink, coral, and red line the path leading there.
We haven't seen another person in 45 minutes.
But we can see the moon in the sky.
Last night, as the sun went down and we skating in the street, we heard crickets chirping. Jack said he thought that was just a sound they used in movies as filler when nothing was going on. He had no idea they were real.
I can't think of the last time I could hear the wind while watching the shadow of palm fronds swaying across my outline in the street.
The movement in the stillness, a solitary bird squacking overhead, is almost surreal. To me.
I wonder how many people who live here all the time actually notice any of this as they drive across the golf course or head to Bloomingdale's.