He’d spend his days in the little garden, pulling weeds, or fixing little things around the house. Nailing down the loose floorboards. Taping up the torn screen door. He couldn’t get the kitchen faucet to stop dripping, so he left a jug beneath it, and used it to water the carrots, peas and potatoes.

Evenings he’s sit out on the balcony, smoking, and nights, strumming the old guitar he’d found inside, using the stars as sheet music.

One morning, a traveler stopped by, looking for someone, he said.

“Ain’t no one here.”

The traveler sat down, said he’d wait.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s