My neighborRead Another
I see my neighbor through a blue stone terrace door
leaning like an old tree against a red wall
He is vaguely Mexican or Puerto Rican
with a satisfyingly warm smile
He reads Hemingway idly in a hammock in the shade
He keeps bees to “sweeten the honey of his golden years” he says
His wife has passed on now some ten years ago
but he finds solace in her memory and the crucifix he wears upon his brown chest
We don’t talk much, but he is good company
He wears blue tattered overalls and puts cat food on the stoop
for the neighborhood cats
There is an air of gentility about him, soft spoken and sanguine
He told me once of a sister who lived in New Mexico near Las Cruses
She raised alpacas and six children
He listens to Guy Davies records, “cowboy music” he calls it
In the evenings I often hear the gentle strum of a guitar being played
Last week though the house was empty and a quiet hush hung over the eaves
the guitar music is silent, the hammock lies idle
This morning the cat bowl was empty
and in the yard the unmown grass hugged the base of a post with a sign reading
For Sale
The morning papers are littered upon the stoop and a sinking feeling eats at me
In the afternoon a police car is parked out front of the house
There is a knock at my door, “no I’m sorry officer”, I say “I didn’t know him very well”
“Yes thank you” the officer walks back to his car
Alone in my living room I absorb the weight of the conversation
and brace for the impact of my emotions, but only a deep quiet hush permeates my heart
My gentile neighbor has found a peace that passes all understanding
and can rest in the company of his closest friends where he is well revered and his name well known
— Steve Brown, Seattle
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