The wind woke me up as its intensity increased with the warming of the afternoon. The instant the dogs realized my eyes were open, they wanted to go outside. I looked outside to see if it was raining. Three police cars sat three doors up to our North. I closed the gate and we went outside. The cops stood in front of the house talking to a man in handcuffs. This is one of many houses in the neighborhood with two cars in the driveway and three more on the grass, low-income families trying their best to fit multiple generations into a three-bedroom home, struggling to get by.
After standing next to the tree, too far away to hear much, we came to the assumption that this was most likely a domestic violence situation. A young woman came out of the house crying. An older woman came outside and tried to console her; the effort didn’t appear to be successful. One of the officers came over and gently walked the young woman away from the man in handcuffs. There was no ambulance but that doesn’t mean harm wasn’t done. Of course, I could be wrong, but we know that domestic violence is all too frequent a crime in desperate situations like these. There’s never a positive spin to three policemen outside your home.
I called the dogs and we walked back inside to the overwhelming fragrance of ham and beans simmering away in the slow cooker. I immediately felt nauseous. I may not be able to eat but at least the kids will have something I know they like. The police are gone now, which, in a way is rather sad. The cars going through the neighborhood have never been more conscious of their driving. Everyone stopped at the stop sign. Maybe the city should just park a car there for a few days.
Meanwhile, I’m lying back down where I belong.
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