We lived near the bottom of a long hill, a hill that kept going forever.
From the top of the hill came stories, evasions, mysteries that were never solved. I would sometimes look up the hill and wonder.
Our own house was embedded into the hill. We sledded down our side yard in winter, mowed sideways in summer. We were the blue house with the many front steps, a big old house where kids could roam but today it was summer. Day camp was over. I could hear the kids up on Prospect.
“Can we go up the hill?”
We heard the sigh so we ran.
We flew out the double Dutch door, my younger sister and I, sprinting down the flagstone path and up to Prospect St. We joined the argument. A Prospect boy had a kickball under his arm.
It’s hard to say who saw it first, but the road dust got quiet. I turned, and I took in a breath. We watched it park, its nose pointing down the hill.
I had heard it was up there.