I was born in this house, not literally. I was born in a hospital but my parents were already living in this house.
It’s something we say, I was born here. To mean I have lived here all my life.
I don’t know when I first learned about the neighbors. Not that they recently moved here. I just can’t recall when my child’s mind learned about their existence. They are like everything else in my life, they have always been here.
Well, not all of them. They have a little girl years younger than me. She came later. Their mother probably gave birth to her. Probably, my mind still thinks of it in those terms, probably. I never saw her pregnant, my mind didn’t yet notice those kinds of things.
But yes, they have always been there, the neighbors. They live right next door. All our houses are identical. It’s one block with three homes.
They are not large houses. Three bedrooms. Small bedrooms. I have never been inside their house, the neighbors. But I know it’s identical to ours. I have been inside the third house on the block, it’s the same. We have the middle home. The house on the left is empty. We once had neighbors there as well. Two men. They left.
I usually wonder how the neighbors fit in their home. They are so many. I think they always look so numerous because they are always all together. Except for their father. They have eight children. Seven girls and a boy.
I have never spoken to any of the neighbors. They don’t speak to us as well. Momma says not to bother them.
All the three homes have a little back porch. The neighbors love to sit on their porch. All eight children with their mother. It’s scary when they are on their porch.
Scary because they don’t speak. I think they do talk to each other. I think I have heard them. I think. They don’t speak when they see you. You can feel their eyes boring into you back, following your every move.
I walk with my eyes trained on the ground trying to shuffle my feet faster. I don’t want to look at them.
One time I caught their mother’s eye. I don’t want to look at them.