He had first noticed it in the Spring. It was just a little spot in the grass near the door of a house that had been there as long as he could remember. Not that he did. Who would think of, much less remember such a house? He rarely walked this block. It was boring. It offered nothing. He preferred, and therefore frequented, a route two blocks over. Who knew what prompted him to vary his route that Spring day?
The house, itself, was small enough to be called “crackerbox”. It’s white paint was not peeling, but it was tired as was the faded trim at the few windows. It looked unwanted, but whether it was wanted or not, someone must live there, and for all the years he’d seen it, he didn’t recall it ever being for sale. Not wanted, but not for sale. He didn’t recall anyone ever sitting on the front step. He didn’t remember evidence of life there.
But in the Spring the little spot in the grass near the door had caught his eye, not because it was pretty or even interesting, but because it was different at a house where nothing ever varied. It had appeared suddenly – the little spot of dirt – and then nothing.
A week later, tiny leaves poked up from the spot and and what had once been weeds along one side of the house had been cleared and hoed.
Curiosity changed his route to a job he neither loved nor despised. After all, other than the nine to five schedule of his week and Saturday grocery shopping, his days were pretty much like that lifeless house where nothing ever varied.
One Saturday changed that.
to be continued . . .
Image: https:// pixabay old-house-513440_640