The old man disappeared a few months back. His ancient Lincoln Continental, with its glossy finish gone flat and peeling from years in the sun, was always parked in the driveway. Every day, as I passed by on my early morning walk, I picked up his newspaper and put it on the trunk of the car so he wouldn’t have to bend down so far.
The old man’s yard was unique to him. Two beautiful cherry trees heralded each spring’s return, their lowest branches adorned with hanging baskets full of faded plastic blossoms. A garden of pinwheels stood at the foot of one. He had a sense of whimsy.
The old man disappeared a few months back. The Lincoln is gone–a neighbor parks his car in the empty driveway now. The garden is overgrown, but the pinwheels, hidden in the knee high grass, remind me that the old man had once been there and I smile.