There's a house I drive by on my way to and from work, and when I'm running errands, and basically any time I go anyplace. There's only one (convenient) way from my little neighborhood into town, and so I drive by this house a lot.
I don't know why I first noticed that particular house; maybe because it's on a corner lot on the main road, or maybe because it's a little one-story house like mine, or maybe because of the handicap ramp jutting out into the driveway, reminding me that we all get old.
It was an old man who lived there; in the summertime, I'd see him sitting in his wheelchair in the side yard, catching some sun.
He got up early in the morning; his house was always all lit up when I'd pass by on my way to work, and I often thought that if I didn't have to go to my job, I sure as heck wouldn't be up that early.
Last Saturday, I noticed that there were a ton of cars parked on the street in front of his house. Oh! I thought. Maybe his family's throwing him a birthday party!
And then on Sunday, the cars were still there. And on Monday. Oh dear, I thought. I hope he's not sick. Or, you know ... worse.
And then when I drove by this morning, the handicap ramp had been dismantled and was lying in pieces in the snow of the side yard.
I wonder who'll buy the house? Maybe a family with kids, filling the place up with energy and laughter again. Maybe someone like me, a middle-aged lady with a couple of cats looking for someplace quiet to settle.
Goodbye, old man. I never really knew you, but I kind of felt like I did. Just from driving by.