Disrepair

The house was fading fast. He didn’t know when it had happened. Or how it happened. But there was no denying that it had happened. The house had fallen into disrepair. Weeds ruled over half of the gardens. Somehow they’d never gotten around to finishing the work they’d started in early summer. He looked around at the miniature jungle while he brushed the bottom of the birdbath with his hands, loosening the yellowish-green growth. He adjusted the hose pipe so that it would lay in the bowl by itself. And he left it. The water would fill the bowl and the overflow would flush out the growth.

He walked on to the deck and shook his head as he approached. The wood was rotten. It was easy enough to deny when there were no real signs. Other than the sick, grey wood, that is. But now pieces of some of the boards had come up. And the deck groaned painfully whenever you walked on it. No. There’s no denying any of it now. The house was going to the dogs. And somehow, that made sense. They always said you could tell a lot about a man by the house he lived in. And this one had most definitely fallen into disrepair.

He swallowed hard. The man and the house. They were both fading fast. And no one noticed. No once cared. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how to turn it all around.

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