Missing

The house was kept in perfect order. The gardens behaved themselves. Everything grew where it was planted, and did not expand to encroach on it’s neighbouring plants. The water feature sounded just right, not too forceful, nor too splashy. It was tended by a spry older man. He too was just right, grey hair neatly parted, clothes clean, but with enough earth on the knees to proclaim he wasn’t adverse to work.

He was alone in that house and spent most of his time outside. Every plant was lovingly tended, coaxed, supported. He was not lonely. He chatted with the neighbours, welcomed them into his miraculous yard- pleased but not too proud. He explained how things grew, when to plant and when to prune. He laughingly explained that he learned quickly how important it was to cover the small pond to keep the koi from feeding the racoons. His eyes shone when he described their bright masked faces. When he wasn’t in his garden, he’d be strolling with a neighbour, or out walking a friend’s dog. He was a kind man, soft spoken and unassuming. I never knew his name. Not for certain. Only that it was short, plain, like homemade bread, nourishing but nothing fancy.

And then suddenly he wasn’t around. It was like noticing a missing tooth. The tongue knows something is up, and keeps checking. The man was in his eighties. He’d lived in the same house since he was two. Where did he go?

The sign arrived. For Sale. “What?” , I asked the agent. “Why?”

“A stroke”, she whispered, leaning in confidentially. “He’s in Duncan now. At a home”. A home. No. His home was here, and it was pining for him. You could see it, paint flecking like tears along the door frame. Brazen weeds flaunting themselves, the lawn overgrown. It was in a state. I believe it was mourning.