We share a driveway with the house to the south of us, lucky to have it in the city, although we have only briefly owned a car. Our fences are wire mesh and ugly, narrow backyards fully exposed. Our neighbour, who doesn’t speak much English, hands us pears, grapes, tomatoes and cucumbers from his garden every year, and this summer a glorious burst of roses spills from his yard into ours. One evening in April, I walk through my darkened dining room to the glare of emergency vehicles. Through the mostly screened window next door, I watch a huddle of young men near the floor, taking turns pumping, passing the beat rhythmically from one to another, until they gradually trail off, pack up, and drive away. My neighbour only tells me of his wife’s death a few weeks later. His words are halting, and I don’t admit to what I witnessed over our shared drive. For a few moments we stand close enough to touch, then he turns hastily and walks away.

From 100 Words: The Beauty of Brevity. Word prompt: share. This one is well over 100 words.