Harry’s house across the street
stands empty.
I miss Harry.
He was only eighty-five. His dear spouse, Florence, died three
years ago. He was by her side so faithfully. They had both loved flowers and growing things. In recent years, a little more than
once, they walked together through our garden paths. At least,
that’s what Harry told me.
Up to just last year, Harry would predictably be sitting at a card
table just inside his open garage and read and write. He was an
avid student of words and ideas. He loved my poetry and I would
read to him. Often, something I read reminded him of some poet
of the past and he would spout off their lengthy poems from
memory!
Once, last fall, I saw him sitting at his table playing a harmonica!
I took my mountain dulcimer down from its shelf and crossed
the street to join him. As I got closer I realized that Harry was
eating ears of buttered corn with gusto! We laughed and I had
an ear of corn . . . and then played a tune.
More than once, when winter was just about to come . . . he would
start up his big self-propelled orange snow blower and, when I saw
him begin to leave his garage, I would start up my little, red Honda
Snow Pup and we would time it so as to meet out in the middle of
the street where our two snow machines would face each other, turn and twirl their rotor blades! A kind of ritual . . . never a word would be uttered.Then, back to the garages to wait for the first blizzard.
This morning, I saw billowing smoke coming from behind Harry’s
house! Neighbors have an unspoken pledge to be on the lookout for
problems. I quickly crossed the street, unlatched the backyard gate,
and saw that the smoke was from his neighbor burning yard waste.
As I turned to leave, I saw his abandoned flower bed along side the
back of the empty house. All that was left was a withered, spent hosta plant.
And a single, tiny, slender marigold in full bloom with its one bright,
orange blossom. Must have been self-seeded.
Wish Harry could have done the same.
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