It was silly really. The minute he’d opened his eyes the thought came to him like a character from a forgotten dream: a ridiculous dream, a dream of nothing but unrelated thoughts and images. He ignored it, but it returned as he whipped two eggs for his Saturday morning omelet and hung around as he buttered his toast. By the time he’d washed his last dish, he’d given in; if nothing else than to make the thought go away.

Now here he was, standing in front of the unwanted, unvarying house with a tiny plant he’d purchased for 89 cents at the grocery store. He exhaled, walked past the spot in the yard and the tiny plants at the side, walked up steps, and rapped on the door. A moment of silence was followed by the sound of a scraping chair and barely perceptible footfalls. The door squeaked as it opened.

Her uncombed hair fell over a brown tee shirt. She tucked one hand in the pocket of her jeans as a confused frown flitted over her face.

He pushed the plant toward her.

“Here. I . . .” He scuffed a shoe against the porch floor and cleared his throat.

“I noticed you were trying to fix up your yard.”

She looked at the plant.

“I thought maybe you might like this to add . . .” his voice drifted off and he shrugged.

The hint of a smile crossed her face and she took the tiny flower.

“Um. Thanks. You’re the guy who walks by every morning at 7:30.”

He nodded.

“And walks past every evening at 5:15.”

He pressed his lips together, searching for something to say.

“I . . . When I eat breakfast and supper I can see you from the window. There’s not much else that happens around here. Nothing changes. Except you. You started walking past here.”

“I started walking past because you started working on your yard. Or at least someone did,” he defended himself.

She took a step back, then looked at the floor in thought.

“Would you . . . would you like to sit on the steps? I have some sweet tea inside I can bring out for us.”

He nodded quickly. They settled on the steps and sipped their tea.

“My dad lived here. He got sick, so I moved back. He died a couple of months ago,” she volunteered by way of explanation.

The man shook his head. “I never saw anyone around this house.”

She stared ahead.

“No, you wouldn’t have. He was very private. I take after him.” She flushed. “But, you know, he had some second thoughts those last few months. He told me to plant some flowers in the yard after he passed. He told me it would be a start. Of what, he didn’t say.”

His gaze was drawn to the yard.

“His house, your house, it looks cared for with flowers. Like it’s wanted maybe. Do you think you’ll sell and move back to wherever you were?”

She shook her head.

“No. This is my childhood home. Maybe it doesn’t – didn’t – look wanted, as you say. But I don’t sell memories. I’m stayin’ “.

“To second thoughts,” he said as he held up his glass.

“To new beginnings,” she added.

The clink of their glasses caught the ear of a passerby and she smiled.

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

He glanced down at the unfolded paper and scoffed. In spiderwebby scrawl it said, “You’re next”. That was all.

He leaned back on the bench and crossed his knee. The brook’s song was noticeable now, and the occasional breeze had slightly increased. Dark edged closer, but dusk’s gray remained.

An amused smile crossed his lips. Sure, some people might be frightened here, at the edge of night with a strange message that came from who knew where, a paper that smelled slightly musty, and words written by what appeared to be a decrepit hand. He wasn’t some people. Everyone knew the stories weren’t true. Anyway, he came because of his annoying dreams. That was different.

He’d stay a little longer just to show it didn’t matter. He was comfortable here – truly comfortable now that he thought about it. In fact, if he wanted to, he would find no trouble in spending the night sleeping on the bench.

His eyes grew heavy, his head bobbed, and he slid down, resting himself on the bench. His breathing slowed. The moon rose higher, the stream sang, and a stronger breeze rustled through his hair. His eyes suddenly opened, grew wide, then closed. The paper slipped from his hand and was swallowed in the weeds. And he dreamed no more.

It is said that as the moon peeks through the leaves of a gnarled tree near an old stone bench, its light signals a nearby brook which raises its voice to call the invisible spirits dwelling there. The spirits have no patience for those who believe they are always right, who confuse opinion with fact, and who indoctrinate those who don’t know better. Those who believe the unknown and unseen exist steer clear of its call because they understand people, even very smart, sophisticated people, perceive life through a limited lens. Those folks, the ones who rewrite truth to suit themselves, who think the old stories are rubbish . . . discover they were wrong.

There were stories, of course: ghoulish, horrible tales passed down for generations. Everyone in town had heard them, and everyone knew they weren’t true. He’d heard the stories all his life and ignored them for the tripe they were. He had better things to do than sit and watch birds and bugs in a cemetery. He was a man of the age. But then the dreams had come and wouldn’t leave.

Funny thing, dreams. When they come in sleep, we’re certain they’re passing fancies. When they’re part of waking thought, some view them the same as sleep’s imaginings and others view them as possible future fact. He pondered that, for a minute. Did it matter when they came, whether waking or sleeping? Bah! Of course it did! Mind tricks is all they were!

So he’d begun to visit this place because of the dreams – the dreams that wouldn’t leave – looking for the thing that would set his mind to rest. And because, if he was honest, he was curious. First, he’d paused as he walked past. A week later, he’d taken a few steps in, then walked away. A few days after that, he’d quickly walked through the grounds; the next day, slowly. Then he’d begun to stop by every day. He’d found the bench and breathed in nature’s sweet air. It was peaceful, actually.

He rested his hands on the concrete and pushed himself farther back onto the pocked bench. A whisper of a breeze touched his hair. He scratched his ear and let his gaze

wander over the stones that peppered the green grass and weeds. Gnarled trees, older than anyone living, dotted the place. A rocky stream meandered silently along the edge of a steep drop not three yards away, with only a stray burble here or there.

This was the first day since he’d begun coming here, though, that he’d stayed long enough for twilight to descend and cloak the small acreage in the gray that follows periwinkle. The dreams had told him to, hadn’t they? He shook his head. Funny the influence that fiction mixed with the subconscious had on a person.

Still, his eyes searched the ground and he saw what he must have missed the other times he’d come here. It lay just as it had in his dreams. Finally. In his dreams he hadn’t been able to make out the scrawl. At last he could. At last the silly visions would leave him and he would sleep undisturbed once again.

A stray breeze, strong for the evening’s quiet, rustled his shirt sleeve and he shivered. The stream trickled more loudly now. The weather must be changing. He looked up at the leaves, still in the evening air.

He leaned down, picked it up, and unfolded the yellowed page.

to be continued . . .

Image: old-stone-bench-1183074_960_720 pixabay CC0 Public Domain

Memorial Day: what a great day! Citizens pulled out grills of every shape and size, stores were busy with celebratory sales, and beaches were filled with winter-white visitors. The brief parade highlighted the day, assuring every attendee of their patriotism.

Five well-spaced lines of an exuberant drill team followed the Grand Marshal, a politician of much note and reputation, in whom even the press found little to criticize.The band with its seven trumpets and eight drummers, its four flutes, three clarinets, and a handful of varied other sounds followed the swishing flags down Main Street. Next came a hay wagon of square dancers, the local gymnastics club cartwheeling to their hearts’ content, and the yearly float carrying the newly crowned city queen with her court waving in harmony.

The convertible with two Gold Star mothers that came next received a smattering of polite applause on this unseasonably warm May day. They weren’t as pretty as the queen and her court nor as exciting as the gymnasts, but they were included every year just the same. People lining the street began to shake out their blankets and stretch their legs, as just ahead of the fire truck, in the echoing cadence of the band, marched the veterans. The flag they carried high hung limp in the heat and stillness of the day.

But one stood still, watching what others left behind in their haste to find the best place at the park. He stood at attention, his chubby hand over his heart as he had been taught. And then? Oh yes. Then a sudden breeze lifted the drooping flag straight. It flew as it should, with honor and dignity. The veterans looked as one at the loyal little boy standing alone at his post on the curb. And the boy smiled.

Image: United States of America flag – commons.wikimedia.org