The Space Between

October 5, 2026

Greetings from the sidewalk,

Three-tenths of a mile. 

We parked our cars and stood in the sun, looking at the house at 1818. It felt like the same place, only looked slightly different.  If you squinted just right, it was easy to see us.

There, where we played basketball, the ball banging off the garage door, or escaping into the yard next door, until we perfected the jump shot from the corner of his house across the drive and into the net. It was not a skill that transferred easily onto the wooden courts at St. Matts.

We turned to the east and followed the sidewalk.  It was warm June morning, the trees full of green, whispering discreet commentary above us as we walked.  We walked slowly, looking at each little yard, admiring how the places were cared for, wondering at how little things had changed, and yet, who were all these people now?

We introduced ourselves to every person we met on the walk, which was easy to do.  Everyone in the neighborhood seemed interested in meeting us.  The man walking his dog, the brothers sitting in their car, a woman on her way across the street.  The retired mailman who lives at 1818 now.

Everyone we met, Tom would say, “This is my best friend David, we’ve been friends since second grade.  Today is his birthday.” 

Our backs to 1818, we walked intuitively toward my old street. In the strip of world between the two houses there were myriad shadows; the sun filtering thorough maples, the shapes of the houses casting their geometry into the yards, even the grass lining up little grey pickets on the sidewalk.

And there in between all of those shadows, two little boys, flashing across lawns, skidding around corners, carving a path that couldn’t be seen by anyone. Even they couldn’t have described it, it simply was known from countless trips back and forth through the neighborhood.

If anyone bothered to tell me it was three tenths of a mile, when Tom and I first ran this distance, it would not have registered.  Life was not measured in that way.  “How far?” was not in our lexicon.  It was davesmith’s house, or Wolfe’s house. 

We marveled at this triangle lot at the intersection, a place we both remembered playing football.  Some magic had narrowed its dimensions, and now, crowded with trees, it was unimaginable it could contain a game of any kind.

There was a young girl sitting outside a house, halfway along our walk.  When we were boys Tom and I had broken into this house, empty at the time.  We tried to tell her that story, at the same time wanting to appear friendly.  I couldn’t tell what she thought but she claimed it was nice to meet us.

For over a decade we traced these few blocks between our houses.  We walked the seven hundred steps or so, fewer steps if we ran, which was more often. I launched off our porch yelling back at the house, “I’m going to Wolfe’s” or some vague description of where we might wander.

The distance had distorted somehow, along with the sizes of the houses.  We reached a corner and I knelt down to touch the sidewalk, my knees muttering at the inconvenience.  From that perspective it looked like it would have when I was six or seven.  When I stood up, I was a little lightheaded. It happens when you are suddenly six decades older.

The sidewalk tilted and settled giving room for stubborn roots of nearby trees.  The cracks and chips in the concrete were like laugh lines, a delightful sign of a life well spent.   

We were laughing about the house on the corner, climbing up the TV antenna bolted to the house, walking the roof late at night. And then, there it was, antenna and all. And here, this bush we hid in when the police came. We traded names back and forth as we walked, here is where Sadie the dog was, and that’s Bud’s house, and now this was Cronin’s, and Goodhue’s and, here is that empty lot where the Koepke’s were.

The trees arched over the street, a canopy lost in most neighborhoods.  The houses were squared neatly against the sidewalk, tiny patches of grass to soften the concrete and asphalt. Miniature estates, cared for, if not always manicured uniformly.

And finally to the house with the numbers 609.  Different colors on the house, but the same little walkway to the tiny porch. Inside it was easy to imagine nothing had changed. My parents still sat at the kitchen table, my brother and sisters caromed from room to room, desperate to out-torment each other.

We stood on the sidewalk and soaked in the same sun that warmed us when we met in second grade. It was a lovely birthday present, something more than nostalgia, it was like renewing our vows of friendship, a millennia after it had begun. 

In all those years there were countless thousands of travels back and forth between 609 and 1818.  But this sidewalk led away from here, first to Tom’s house, and then ...everywhere else.  And back.

Hope this finds you visiting,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith