Every Sunday I saw the Patel kids in neon vests, pushing brooms down our cracked street. I figured it was extra credit or a social media stunt. One morning I followed with a box of donuts, prepared to clap and go home satisfied. Instead of posing, they stopped at the storm drain and sorted their haul into jars: metal, glass, batteries, oil. “Dad says this is where the river begins,” Maya told me, pointing at the black grate. “If we keep the start filthy, the end never stands a chance.”
They weren’t cleaning for praise; they were selling recyclables to buy filters for the community center’s wheezing fountain. Their ledger was smudged with rain and decimals; their shoes were ruined. I felt suddenly enormous and small—an adult with excuses watching children build a better map. The next Sunday our block woke to the scrape of more brooms, not fewer. The sound traveled like a hymn. We fitted a mesh over the drain, fixed the fountain, and painted the curb a hopeful blue. The jar labeled “excuses” stayed empty.
