The Fence

The remaining spindles of a picket fence.

What a sad sight to gaze upon.

It was once a beautiful white fence. Pretty pink and purple flowers were lined up at its base.

Now it was weathered and threatened to be engulfed by weeds.

It sat in front of a once lovely gray house with white trim and a metal roof, which also showed the unkind years upon it, although it could be repaired.

While the fence and house were once tended to, nobody in the neighborhood knows by whom.

It was as if the person who resided in the home wanted to be a ghost. Not that they completely hide their presence from everyone.

But it didn’t take long for people to notice they had left, probably in the middle of the night when the neighborhood slumbered.

The paint on the fence started flaking without anyone giving a touchup. The flowers wilted and died. The grass overtook everything.

The house became devoid of brightness. No lights were on inside, nor was the scent of food searching to tempt the others in the evening air.

A few people investigated over the following months but found nothing that could reveal what happened.

And the property was now a shell of its former glorious self.

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