The bees stopped in autumn, leaves laying wet on the grass like a blanket covering bedsores. Holes of memory every time I left the building called home. Home base, base that acted against the acid of the outside.

A pothole, still unfilled, on the street next to my house. Yellow tape lay on the ground next to it. The wind took it. Now it’s in someone’s yard.

On brown and grey leaf piles. I never ever rake my yard though nobody else in my building does either.

None of them have families though they know me. I look up. There’s three birds, they sound like swallows. Why are they still here?

Like what you read? Give Thom Brewster a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.