Pluto

My exwife parked in the middle of her driveway and I can't fit in, I drive up the corner of the driveway, across a trapezoidal piece of concrete where the trash cans go on Wednesday nights and stop, blocking the driveway. 15 miles from here is the house I grew up in, in this spot outside of this house my father poured the concrete, it is still there; he poured it on my third birthday. I don't remember this. I know it because I've been there recently, the trapezoid is still there, he engraved the concrete when it was still wet, our names, the date, our handprints. We've been here. We've terraformed this small space, marked it, temporarily. I don't remember it, but we were here in the late spring of 1972.

This is what I'm reminded of. There are no markings where I've parked. What marks this house is the mail in the mailbox, the toys in the front yard, ephemera, I knock at the door and my son comes out, he's been given an electric scooter and he asks me to assemble it for him, he gets tools for me, it takes 10 minutes and he asks me to watch him as he rides it up and down the sidewalk. I want to leave but he wants to play longer. I watch him. I wonder where my place is here, my mark on the concrete.