The Wall

          It took several trips to the hardware store and more than a little sweat and muscle to get all the sheets of plyboard into my dodge caravan and then to my backyard fence. My mock orange hedge fronting the fence was always a good thing, but now it had become a bad thing. I had to squeeze each board behind the bushes and each thrust was paid for with skin and blood where the branches cut into my arms. I was determined though, to silence the radio that was playing without fail each day. How come this guy never watched TV? It would be a welcome break from the hits of the 80s’ over and over again. I couldn’t change who my neighbors rented their rooms to, but I could control my side of the fence.
          When it was finished I could still hear the music, but somehow it seemed better knowing that we didn’t have to look at each other from his window to my patio. I could even hear his phone conversations . . . this last one I heard, “. . . do you know what it’s like to be blind?”

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